


Drinking Buddies

by NegansOtherWife



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, F/M, Gritty, Heavy Angst, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut, dominant Negan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 78,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegansOtherWife/pseuds/NegansOtherWife
Summary: You reluctantly take on the role of one of Negan's wives to save your group and develop a drinking habit as a way to cope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was on Tumblr (what else is new) and I decided to try my hand at a reader insert fic. I really like the idea of the main character (you) trying to hide her worsening drinking habit (from Negan), and all around angst as you deal with the situation you find yourself in.

“Please, don’t kill her,” Your quiet plea cuts through the chaotic moment and as you listen to the sound of crunching boots approach where you kneel on the gravel of the road, your eyes remain intently locked on your knees. The vision of your fingers digging so deeply into the skin of your thighs that your knuckles turn white is engraved into your memory forever.

“What did you say?” The barrel of a gun taps your chin and you’re forced to look up. The metal of the gun is still warm and you dare not look away to gaze at the slain body of the person who’d once been kneeling next to your ailing mother. You can only imagine how she looks, so frail and helpless, the very thought causes tears to well up in your eyes and a sob begins to form in your throat. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Y/N, sir,” The words barely escape your cracked lips as you gaze up into his green eyes. 

“Y/N,” He repeats slowly with a leer, taking the time to let his eyes leisurely survey your body, and the small hairs on the back of your neck raise in uneasiness. “Well aren’t you just a pretty thing. Isn’t she fellas?” The men who encase your group in a semi-circle throw catcalls and hoot. The humiliation is swift as you catch the eye of your brother and the tears in his eyes.

 _Please._ You plead internally. _Not like this._

You think how cruel is fate that your group was just walking along the side of the road, and stumbled across the pack of traveling men. How cruel indeed. 

“Well, Y/N,” He throws his hands out in a show of unnecessary elaboration. “My men seem to agree. Why don’t we see if the big boss agrees, huh?” He saunters backward with his eyes still locked onto your trembling form and smirks as he knocks deliberately slow on the door of a parked RV.

“Simon,” The door swings open without missing a beat, and a man steps out of the vehicle causing the posture of the men around you to straighten. “and what…do…we…have  _here_?” His extremely good looking face is marred by an ugly smirk that promises nothing more than pain— this you’re sure of. But that’s all you can notice before your gaze drops to your lap again, the idea that these are your last moments alive is somewhat comforting. Someone will finally have the courage to do what you can’t, and what an ugly way to go indeed. The bat in the man's hand looks lethal.

"Negan," Simon looks awfully proud of himself for some reason as he motions in your direction. "Thought you might want to see what I found."

“H-o-l-y. Shit!” The sound of boots crunching on gravel approaches you at an alarming rate. You’re not ready to die— at least, not without having a final goodbye to your family. “Good job, Simon! You get a round at the pussy parlor tonight.” The booted feet have stopped directly in front of you and you tremble in anticipation, as you sense him leaning closer. His rough hand grabs your chin and you gaze up into the most intense pair of brown eyes. They swirl with unnamed emotions, and a bit of uneasiness begins to form in your lower stomach. “What’s your name, darling?”

“Y/N,” Your name falls from your trembling lips as he continues to beseech you with his intense gaze. 

“Well, today’s everyone's lucky day,” He points to the dead body next to your mother. She’s frozen in place, unreceptive to the movements around her, as she gazes straightforward at seemingly nothing. “Except for that poor fucker, of course. But I’ve got a proposition for you all.”

You take in every word as you try to understand what he’s getting at. What kind of proposition?

He makes a sweeping gesture with the bat in his hand, taking a dramatic pause as his gaze yet again lands on you. It’s dark and there are unspoken promises that seem to be encased within them. “I will offer you lucky fuckers sanctuary— on one condition. You earn your place. You work for me, _capiche_?”

Dead silence. Is this a trap? You chance a glance at your brother who’s gazing at Negan with a suspiciousness mainly stemming from a trail of broken promises and betrayal in the past from previous ‘good samaritans’.

“I can’t hear you!” Your group murmurs a hesitant agreement all at once, tripping over themselves verbally to answer Negan. His grin is mocking as he grins gleefully before tapping the base of his bat against his chin thoughtfully. “Good, good. Here’s how it works. You work for me— you earn points and you get shit. Sound good?” Your group nods suddenly, looking more hopeful at the prospect of shelter and food. 

“Alright, then. That was easy.” He turns to the man named Simon. “Load ‘em up. Well, except for that lady. She looks like utter shit.”

All your organs feel as if they’ve vacated your body at the same time as he points to your sick mother. The words leave your mouth before you can help it: “Please, no! Not my mother, she has to come to.”

He pauses in his steps and Simon steps toward you threateningly but you're uncaring as you watch as your mother's frame trembles uncontrollably. Your brother and mother are all you have left.

“She’s sick.” Negan answers flatly. “She’ll use a good portion of meds, and she won’t be able to pay me back quick enough.”

“I’ll pay for them,” He shakes his head, considering. "It's just pneumonia, I swear."

“Still not enough.” You can’t help but feel as if your falling into a trap of some sort as your desperation grows and you continue to plea with Negan.

“Please, I’ll do anything!” He pauses in his retreat, and as he slowly turns to face you. It's then that you understand. You’ve fallen for this— whatever it is. Hook. Line. Sinker.

“Anything?” His warm breath fans across your neck as he bends at the waist, leaning in close to whisper in your ear. “You’re really gonna make me work for it aren’t you, baby?” You’re confused— what is he playing at? You think this as you watch him kneel before you mockingly, his men laugh crudely at his words. The joke completely eludes you.

“Babydoll, with a rack like that you can bring any man to his knees,” His eyes darken as they take in your vulnerable form adorned in a ratty t-shirt— full of gaping holes. “Marry me?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! I'm blown away by the response to only ONE chapter. Leave me a comment. Got any ideas? I'd love to hear them. Want Negan to say something sassy? Ok, me too. Always looking for suggestions. 
> 
> I want it all! Pretty much just going off the beaten path with this story but I've got so many ideas!
> 
> Okay, mwah x

The Sanctuary is a mangled metal castle straight out of a twisted fairy tale. You have to admit that it’s impressive and dominating— just like Negan— as you gaze heavenward, cloaked in its shadow. 

Shortly before you’d gotten here Negan’s men had loaded your group into the back of a pickup where Simon had taken it upon himself to assign jobs.

* * *

_You pray that your family will be placed somewhere you can visit daily from… wherever it is your going. You’re still confused by Negan's show of bravado. Once you nodded reluctantly, he’d stood and pivoted, sauntering away without another word. But you had a slight inkling that whatever that was— it wasn’t over just yet. “How old are you, boy?” Simon motions to your brother, and you nudge Kaleb so that he’ll answer quickly._

_There is a hardness in your brother’s eyes when he meets Simon’s gaze, and answers: “Twenty-three.”_

_Simon nods accordingly at the morsel of information before he says: “You’ll be with me.”_

_You’re not sure if that's a good thing, but the two men in the cab of the moving truck, hoot and say things like: “You're one of us,” and “We take of our own.” So you're not as worried. He could have easily been slaughtered— his body left discarded in the middle of the road as biter bait like the slain body of your former group member._

_You release a sigh of relief when he assigns your mother to be kitchen staff, and you think, wherever the kitchen is— you’ll be there as much as possible. Negan permitting. While your situation is somewhat improving you can’t help but feel hopeless, and you think… maybe it should’ve been you left in the middle of the road._

* * *

Now you stood beside the same truck, clutching your brother's arm desperately. Images of what’s in store for you intermediately come to the forefront of your mind leading your heart to quicken. You’re lightheaded with the feeling as Negan begins to tug you away. A protest dies on your lips as you see the look in his eyes, so quickly, you kiss your brother on his cheek before you’re pulled away and through the front doors of the factory. 

“I don’t take kindly to cheating, babydoll.” His grip on your arm briefly tightens and you rush to squash his unnecessary qualms with your brother, lest he takes it out on him. “That your boyfriend or something? Cause let me tell you, doll. You can leave that shit at the front door.”

“He’s my twin brother, sir.” Your voice quivers at the thought of never seeing him again. Not being able to see your mother either. “I _need_ to see him.” You tactfully add a please, hoping that will soften the sharpness in your words.

It doesn't.

He stops, dropping your arm and you breathe in a sigh of relief, flexing it gently to regain blood flow. “Let’s get one thing right, Y/N.” He steps into your personal space forcing you up against a wall. The feeling of cool metal pressed against your back is a sharp contrast from Negan, its almost as if everything he does exhumes _force_ and heat. Negan’s broad chest presses tightly against your front, and you reluctantly release the breath you’re holding, making it so that there isn’t an ounce of space between you two. 

“You’re in no position to make any sort of demand or request,” His eyes smolder like a dying fire as he notices the way your breathe hitches. His aroma is one of bergamot, spice, and smoke. The combination makes your stomach heave with an unknown sensation, as you realize you can’t escape him. “See, you and I,” A finger tugs at the neck of your shirt, before it slides down to your waist, dangerously close to the curve of your hip. “have a deal— don’t we, babydoll? I own you and man… oh man, does that excite me.” Negan’s voice lowers to a sensual purr, as he regards you from behind hooded eyelids. 

The unknown sensation comes to rest warm and heavy in your lower belly, as you watch his tongue dart out to dampen his lower lips. “Fuck, I wanna hear you say it.” You’ve nodded along hastily in agreement up until this point where you realize he’s requested something of you. 

“You own me,” The words are heavy on your lips and they drip slowly like molasses, causing you to stumble. You’re utterly helpless and broken. It's then do you realize, that even though you’ll leave this hallway, a part of you will always remain here— broken and defeated.  

“For fuck’s _sake_ , don’t look at me like that, doll.” Negan sighs almost regretfully as he watches the way tears roll down your cheeks. “I’m not a _complete_ jackass, you’ll see. Maybe you and I can negotiate the terms of our agreement, huh?” 

He waits for you to nod before once again seizing your arm, veering right and coming to the last door at the end of a short hallway. You think this must be some kind of sick joke as you enter a lush room that accommodates large windows adorned with silk curtains, velvet couches piled high with expensive looking pillows, and bookshelves that dominate the entire back wall of the room. Stepping past the threshold into the room on shaky feet, the first thing that draws your attention is a lamp— specifically the lightbulb.

 _It’s on._ You marvel in silent wonder. Distantly, you realize you must look like some sort of cave man discovering fire for the first time. But its been so long since you’ve seen electricity, the idea has become somewhat of a dying legend to you.

“New wife, meet old wives,” Negan waves to the room and it's only then that you realize it’s occupied by five women in varying black dresses. The women before you regard you silently and you can't imagine how you look to them: tangled hair, cracked lips, and ratty clothes. Their wearing heels for goodness sake! It’s like you’ve stepped into an episode of _The Twilight Zone._  

The women in the room do as he says, and each take turns introducing themselves. You don’t bother to listen, as you marvel at the idea of Negan having multiple wives. At first, theirs a sharp pang in your chest, before it gone and you realize with relief that you will not have to spend every waking moment with that evil man. “Sherry…Amber…” The way he drawls their names sounds like a greeting and threat all rolled into one, they stand immediately and come before him and you realize with a sharp twist of your gut that this will be you soon. Nothing more then a princess locked away in a metal tower. 

“I want her cleaned up and ready for dinner tonight, and show Y/N to her room. Man oh, man.” Negan’s eyes roam your body leisurely, which you think makes quite an odd picture, as he has his arms wrapped around both of the woman's waist as they all regard you— each with different expressions on their face. “Simon really does know how to spoil a man.”

With an air of finality he shuts the door, leaving you alone with the women in the room; and as quick as Negan’s gone, so is the tension in the room as the women relax, seizing the chance to properly greet you.

“I’m Sherry, hun.” Her arm rests gently on yours, which you realize are tightly fisted in your shirt. With a surprising amount of tenderness she deposits you on the couch, you’d been admiring not too long ago. “You’ll learn to live with it, I promise.” 

She doesn’t sound convincing. 

Your eyes start to water again, and Amber takes the open seat beside you handing you a drink from the bar cart. Gagging from the first sip, you regard the small glass in your hand.

“It’s whiskey,” Amber informs you before handing you a tall glass of water. “Trust me… you’ll need it to get through dinner.” Despite the uneasiness of this situation, your stomach gargles at the prospect of food.

“There’s a cheese plate, oh, with fruit,” A petite black woman with wild curls darts across the room before setting it down on the end table. “—you must be starved, eat up. I know we already introduced ourselves but… I’m Annabella. You know Sherry and Amber. The redhead is Vicky and thats—”

“I’m Rachel,” A tall woman with fair skin and a dark bob regards you with undisguised malice, before stepping closer towards you. “How old are you, Y/N?”

“Twenty-three,” You answer bluntly, and you notice the way Annabella’s face sours for a moment before she urges you to eat again.

“You’re by far the youngest. But don’t worry, Negan won’t do anything to you unless you give him permission.” Annabella utters as the door slams and you notice that Rachel left without another word. 

Amber takes your glass to refill it and you realize that you’ve drained both. The whiskey sitting warmly in your stomach as you listen to them lightly chatter on. “Don’t mind her, she’s just mad because you’re Negan’s _newest_ — pretty sure she’s the only one who actually likes being here.”

Their voices fade away as you focus your sole attention on stuffing grapes and cheese into your mouth. The plump grapes burst with juice, bathing your tongue in a sweetness that makes your mouth flow with saliva as you swallow more in greedy succession. “Speaking of which,” Sherry regards you intently and you pause mid-chew as you notice her posture change. “You should know the rules.”

“The rules,” You echo, swallowing uncomfortably around the lump in your throat. There’s a brief moment where you ponder purposely choking on the food lodged there.

“This is our common room, you’re allowed to leave, but it's at your own risk. If Negan’s looking for you and you’re not here,” Sherry trails off but you find that you don’t need her to continue, her grave expression says it all.

Although you think brightening slightly, you’ll get to see your family. 

Annabella interrupts, “Always be on time for dinner. Negan insists upon all his wives eating together.” She rolls her hazel eyes before continuing, “That’s also usually when he _picks…_ who he’ll spend the night with.”

Your stomach sinks at the thought of him picking you, as Amber places a newly filled glass of whiskey in your hand. 

“You can say no, of course.” Sherry inserts, although her facial expression begs to differ. You realize then that Negan is holding your sick mother over your head for leverage. What does he have on these women? “However, the most important rule of all is—“

“No…cheating…” Amber’s voice wavers as she takes a sip from her glass, staring off into seemingly nothing. “…Negan doesn’t like to share.”

They all look away lost in their own individual thoughts, as you swallow the cheese in your mouth, placing the grape in your hand back onto the platter. You can’t possibly eat anymore, and you regret gorging on food when your brother and mother haven’t eaten in days. Your mouth tastes sour from the guilt, and the food you’ve just consumed sinks like cement to the bottom of your stomach.

“Come on, hun.” It's then after a bout of mutual silence does Sherry motion for you to stand, and like a lost lamb you follow her out of the room. “Let’s get you ready for dinner.” She closes the door behind both of you as you leave, but even so— Amber’s soft weeping follows you down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Tumblr for being my #1 *blows kiss*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flu was strong, but I was stronger! With that being said, enjoy the chapter. (Sorry about it being a little late). It's a long one, I suggest you grab a snack.

Ever have one of those days where it seems like the ground could fall away from your feet at any moment? Like anything and everything holds this sense of fragility and you’re walking on eggshells? Its so _precarious_ but you have no choice but to keep moving forward because you’re a coward and you’re too afraid to see whats on the other side. Well, you think, _I'm having one of those weeks_. 

You stand before a mirror in what Sherry has deemed your “new room” carefully studying the woman in the mirror. 

“Who is that person,” You ponder aloud as Sherry flits around you adding what she deems are ‘finishing touches.’ 

While the room is nice— a light blue color scheme with heavy curtains, a cream colored rug, and chestnut furniture— you have to wonder how many women have laid in that bed before you.

Will Negan lay beside you in it?

The thought makes your heart clench painfully as you realize you’ll do _anything_ to make sure your mother can stay here. Here— is better than out there. Even if your mother is not being treated to the same… ‘luxuries' that you are. Sherry had helpfully informed you that she’d have a warm bed and three square meals a day. Medicine.

Your brother, well, he’d hit the jackpot according to Sherry— a _Savior,_ that's what he was now. In the social hierarchy established at the Sanctuary, he was directly below you— third from the top. The top being, Negan. 

That thought, however, was only slightly comforting, they’d senselessly killed one of your own people, you can only imagine what they’ll make your brother do. 

“When do you think I can see my mother,” Sherry’s quiet for a long time and you think maybe she’s ignoring you on purpose before she looks up from whatever she’s doing to your hair and finally meets your eye in the mirror. 

“Maybe its best that you focus on getting on Negan’s good side, just for now,” With a final tug at the hemline of your dress, which makes you feel more exposed then you’ve ever been, as it is way too short and sleeveless, she steps back. “Alright, I’m going to go check on Amber. Why don’t you relax before dinner?” 

And just like that, you're alone for the first time in months. It's unsettling.

In the stillness of your room, you cannot resist the temptation of sinking onto the soft looking bed. It’s pliable beneath your sore body, and molds to every aching and bruised part of you... gentle like a lover, and you think _if only this feeling could travel with you forever_.  Mindful of your makeup and the hair that Sherry has worked so hard on, you place your head gingerly on the pillow. 

Sleep comes swiftly then, and you let it take you. 

* * *

There is a moment upon waking— a blissful moment— where your mind is a blank slate. Void of any thoughts of the dead or the sinking feeling you’ve come to know so well— you revel in the idea of staying in this state of paralysis forever. Maybe, just maybe, you think… _this is what death is like_. 

A repeated knock on the door cause you to rise quickly, striding across the room to answer the door quickly. 

It’s Amber, and you let her in noticing that she has several pairs of shoes in her hands. 

“Let’s see which one of us will have to give up a pair of heels,” She softly teases as a way of greeting, dropping them at the foot of your bed before sinking onto it. As she rests on her stomach, head propped up on her folded arms, ankles crossed daintily in the air, you think _this has all the makings of a sleepover_. If only you both weren’t being extorted and watched over by a bat-wielding maniac. 

After several moments of trying on shoes, you decide to break the silence between you two as it is quite stifling, “Are you okay?” You slide on the last pair after finding that the first two don’t fit, and while its a perfect fit, you slide them off and lace up your worn out pair of Converse instead. The idea of wearing heels is ridiculous, not to mention impractical.

Ambers quiet for a moment before sitting up on your bed, you watch as she grips a throw pillow, clutching it to her chest before she sighs, “I might as well tell you. Everyone else knows, and _disapproves_.” She finishes her sentence with a lackadaisical roll of her blue eyes, and you can’t help but think whatever she’s done— it’s partially her fault.  The girl seems like the reckless type. 

“Theirs this guy,” Her voice lowers wary of both your surroundings, even so, you can’t help but notice the way her red-rimmed eyes twinkle. “Mark.”

“Mark,” You repeat slowly, because the way she says it bears the weight of something significant, you’re just not sure what. “is your…?”

“Boyfriend,” She quietly affirms, and you find yourself leaning forward as she continues. “He’s amazing, Y/N.”

A knock on the door causes you both to jump, and Amber rights herself with a nervous giggle from her place on your bed, but not before whispering, “Maybe I’ll take you to meet him sometime.”

Your stomach sinks at the prospect.

She opens the bedroom door only to reveal Sherry standing in the doorway and you notice the way she fidgets with her hair for a moment as she straightens her dress in the doorway. _Odd_ , you think. But you’ve noticed worse habits. Sherry barely glances at your feet, before she's ushering you and Amber out of the room. “We’re late and you know what happens when we keep Negan waiting.” 

The sound of heels on metal flooring reverberates through the hallway as you follow the two women up a flight of stairs, and down a medium sized hallway. Maybe, just maybe, you think. _Negan’s on to something with the heels_. One of the doors is ajar, and you recognize Annabella’s tinkling laughter followed by Simon’s familiar grumblings. 

“This is Negan’s wing of the factory,” Amber sarcastically jokes as she opens the door and you step in after her. “His office is at the end of the hallway, his bedroom,” She points around the corner, “over there.”

The dining room you follow her into is nothing short of your expectations if your room and the parlor were anything to go by. It seems that Negan is used to living in the lap of luxury, the thought is slightly bitter as you compare the way you and your group have been living to— well, this. 

A large oak dining table dominates the room, on its surface are expensive looking place settings for eight people, some of which are already occupied. Annabella breaks her conversations with Simon to momentarily give you a small wave before she goes back to whatever they're diligently discussing. Seeing how everyone else is preoccupied with various stages of conversation, and Negan is nowhere to be found, you take the opportunity to explore the art on the walls. 

The room, you have to admit, is tastefully decorated with various frames of what look to be art pieces depicting various stages of a war. _Fitting_ , you think dryly coming to stop at quite a large painting dominating the back wall of the room.

“The Death of General Wolfe, 1770,” Negan’s gruff voice utters in close proximity to your ear causing you to startle. With a warm hand on your hip, he keeps you in place, stepping closer so that his hard chest is pressed against your back. Together you gaze at the agonized face of the dying General, Negan’s warm breath periodically fanning the back of your neck, both of you lost in quiet contemplation. 

You can’t think of anything to say except the obvious, as you awkwardly shift the weight of your body to the other foot, aware of the others in the room. “You like art?” 

His answer is slightly biting when he responds. “I like to look at shit— its called an aesthetic, doll.”  

Before long you start to notice a change in his demeanor and the grip on your hip tightens signaling for you to turn around. “Can I just say, you clean up nicely, babydoll.” The hand at your hip strokes the material of your dress. His palm, therefore, injecting warmth into your body.

“I can’t wait anymore,” Without any warning Negan’s warm breath washes over your face, rapidly closing the distance between you two. “I’ve _got_ to have a taste of what’s mine, Y/N.”

Kissing Negan was nothing like you’d expect. 

Capturing your lips with a surprisingly gentle but firm embrace, one that takes you off guard, he tugs you closer, causing you to breathe in more of his intoxicating scent. His lips if anything are slightly chapped from extensive exposure to the sun, but pleasantly soft and plump, as they move steadily against yours, coaxing a sensual rhythm that you're taken aback by.

Negan's other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, gaining a better angle as his warm tongue flicks across yours. His mouth is sweet and tastes of an alcohol you cannot recognize, but makes your head swim nonetheless as the voices in the background phase out.

A sharp gasp causes you to pull away sharply, the sound like ice water down your back as you realize where you are— and what you’re doing. Turning to investigate you find your mother carrying a large bowl, along with what you presume is the rest of the kitchen staff. She looks freshly showered and she’s in a new set of clothes— albeit ones that are slightly worn in. 

Her eyes gaze back at you— appalled and wide— and you realize how this must look. Trussed up against Negan, his hands dangerously low on your hips and his wicked tongue in your mouth. Your mothers always aired more on the conservative side when it came to certain things. One of which is affection and the shame is swift.  

“Hell no. _No_ , babydoll.” Negan's grip tightens on your chin as you gaze into his eyes which have hardened. “You look at me. Got that? Look at her, and I’ll make sure you’re _both_ sorry.” You spare a minute glance at the impassive faces of the kitchen staff, all of which are lined up against the farthest wall waiting to serve dinner. 

He releases you to sit at the head of the table and you’re grateful for Annabella who grasps your hand and leads you to the seat left of Negan before taking the chair to your left. A little way down the table Rachel huffs loudly, and its then do you notice that she’s seated at the end of the table, directly opposite of Negan.

“Something stuck in your throat, Rach?” Annabella shares a look with Simon across the table, miming a jerking motion with her hand, and he snorts into his drink. 

When everyone has settled into their seats, the workers from the kitchen come to life again, placing napkins in laps and setting a covered tray before you. Next, a crystal bowl filled with salad and a basket of warm rolls are set onto the table. When the lid is lifted you are immediately bombarded with the aroma of chicken, and following everyone’s lead, you dig in.  You can't help but hum in content tucking into the roast chicken, vegetables, and baked potato smothered in some sort of gravy on your plate.  

“Kill any walkers on your run?” Annabella finally says breaking the silence of the room, until then everyone had been too immersed in their own food to make conversation. If you were being honest, Negan didn’t seem like the kind to make small talk. “How’d Hilltop treat you?”

“Same old, same old,” Simon shrugs, shoveling potatoes into his mouth. “Gregory’s a slimy, no-backbone motherfucker. Beats me, while he’s still in charge.” He launches into how he’d managed to collect a whole case of bourbon that Gregory was hiding, and Annabella hangs on to every word eyes glittering. 

“They taught you the rules, babydoll?” The scraping of utensils against plates seizes momentarily before it continues. Negan’s quiet question takes you off guard as thoughts of your brother and where he could possibly be, have consumed your mind, making you a less than stellar dinner guest.  

“Yes,” Making eye contact with Negan, you realize, requires quite a bit of emotional strength. 

“Recite them,” Your mother, who stands against the wall with the rest of the kitchen staff makes a sound that sounds like choking, and you can practically feel her gaze scorching a hole into the back of your head. “Go on babydoll. I want to make sure my wives are making a great fucking impression.” He chews thoughtfully on his food while regarding you. 

“Negan, maybe we could have—“ The slamming of both his fists against the table causes you all to jump, and you notice the way Simon pauses— his fork halfway to his mouth before he continues eating. 

“You know something, Sherry? I don’t give a _damn_ because I asked you two,” The knife in his hand points to her before landing on Amber. “to do this one thing. So let's hear it, Y/N. Let’s hear you recite the goddamn rules.” 

You take a sip of your wine to stall for a moment as the eyes of the others fall on you begging you not to screw this up.

“There’s only three,” Annabella’s mouth barely moves as she takes a sip of her drink. You’re instantly relieved as doubt had begun to creep into your system making you hesitate.

“Always stay in the parlor,” After a nod from Negan you continue slightly encouraged, and rush to have the spotlight taken off of you, mindful of the fact that your mother is listening your voice gets lower. “Be on time for dinner.”

“Good rule,” Negan interrupts. “People have to eat. Am I, right?”

“Here, here.” Simon agrees, as your face heats with humiliation.

“Now, babydoll. Let’s here the most important rule of all.” He completely abandons his plate and centers his full attention on you, as he sips from his glass. “Let’s here the golden rule.”

“No cheating,” You quietly finish.

“Good girl,” His praise has the opposite effect that you’d imagine, and against your initial reflex, a bolt of pleasure travels the length of your spine making you twitch in your chair. In hopes of hiding your reaction, you take a sip of wine before returning to your salad. 

You look up after a moment of silence on Negan’s part, as you realize the whole table quiet has gone quiet. “There are rules for a reason, babydoll. You follow the rules and spread those _sweet_ thighs when I ask, then we can all have a somewhat happy existence.” He motions to the kitchen staff. “Will one of you bring my _goddamn_ wife some more wine. I don’t pay you to stand there sucking up all my  _goddamn_  oxygen.”

You startle when you realize it's your mother who steps forward to fill your glass, recognizing her by her familiar scent of lavender and vanilla. The next moments are a rush of activity as you jerk backward, dropping the fork in your hand. Your mother apologizes quietly, Negan curses, and you rush to quell the situation. Without a second’s hesitation, you drop onto your knees reaching for the discarded utensil. It’s then when you dive under the tablecloth are you met with the image of Simon’s hand dangerously high on  Sherry’s knee. Simon is quick to snatch it away but by then it's too late as you’ve seen enough. 

 _Oh_.

Schooling your thoughts you sit down gingerly in your chair with as much dignity as possible, as one of the kitchen staff rush to push your chair in. It’s like you’re the Queen of England as they tuck you back into your chair and even place a newly polished fork in your hand. 

“As I was saying,” You wonder if anyone can hear how fast your heart is flying, and you don’t even dare to look across the table. “There are rules for a reason, nothing matters if you're dead. Right, _Sher_?

Nothing in her voice gives away any of her secrets, especially the one hiding under the tablecloth, when she says: “Yes, Negan. We already consider Y/N as one of our own.”

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” You watch Negan’s hands instead of his face as he meticulously slices a piece of chicken before impaling it with his knife. “Babydoll,” The tone of his voice makes you shiver deceptively. “it’s time to introduce you to another perk of being my wife.” 

With a sharp whistle that makes you wince, the door to the dining room opens to reveal a stout man carrying a large burlap sack.

“Babydoll, meet Fat Joey,” Fat Joey saunters around to Negan’s right side, coming to stand in between him and Simon. When he catches your gaze he blushes, looking down quickly, and you feel sorry for him as Negan immediately pounces on the minute form of indiscretion. “You like looking at my new wife, Fat Joe?”

“No, Negan.” He stutters out, and with a morbid fascination, you observe the sweat collecting under his chin as you sip your glass of wine.

“Something wrong with my wife,” Negan motions to you, settling his dark eyes on Fat Joey. “Her tits not big enough for you? You more of an ass man, Joey?” You steadily drain your glass as you watch Negan antagonize the poor man. If you’re going to witness another person die today, you’re hell bent on not remembering any of it the next morning. 

Joey shakes his head frantically looking at first your face, then to Negan’s, and then the floor, “It’s not that, sir. I just—”

Negan leans closer to him as if to whisper a secret, but his tone is anything but. “I mean I don’t blame you. Look at her,” He hums in content, “and I’m the lucky son of a bitch that'll be inside her later. Hey— you want a shot first?”

Fat Joey looks as if he’s about to die of embarrassment while simultaneously pissing his pants, and you think, you might join him.

“I’m just shooting the piss with you,” Negan lets lose an ugly laugh before motioning for him to pass the large bag in his hand, and Joey does so before bolting towards the door. “Lighten up on the wine, babydoll. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got any ideas? Leave me a comment. I'd love to hear them. Want Negan to say something sassy? Ok, me too. Always looking for suggestions.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Tumblr for the inspiration of this slightly twisted chapter, and for helping me meet like-minded individuals who enjoy Negan as much as I do. And of course my dear readers, who take the time to review and leave kudos!

There was nothing— absolutely nothing— that had made your heart race faster in your life than _this_ moment. After Negan had cut off your wine intake, you’d promptly spent the rest of dinner guzzling water, regretting your decision immensely. 

Considering the comment he’d made about being inside you tonight, you at least wanted to be somewhat coherent for the moment. 

That’s how you'd been for as long as you could remember. If there was _anything_ that was going to come at you, you wanted to face it head-on. Your brother had claimed that it was your desire for the unknown, but really you couldn’t say for sure. Whether it was a shot at the doctor's office or that moment on a roller coaster before the big drop, you  _needed_ to face it head on— eyes open. 

You continue to mull this over in your head as you find yourself outside Negan’s office, anxiously thumbing the door handle, where he’s so graciously requested your presence. What scared you the most about this moment wasn’t the unknown, but the humiliation from earlier and the idea of _more_. 

But you were quickly discovering with the consumption of alcohol came reckless decisions of the heart, born in a moment of the minds uncertainty.

Appalled, you listen to the sound of your knock ping off the metal walls of the short hallway, waiting breathlessly as Negan answers in a deep rumble beckoning for you to come inside. You curse your traitorous hand, before doing as he’s ordered. Once inside you shut the door behind you, slightly eased by the fact that there isn’t a bed anywhere in sight.

But that doesn't mean much.

Taking the time to study Negan’s office while he scribbles inside a thick binder, shuffling paper around on his desk, you observe the large room dominated by shelves full of various books and knick-knacks. Finally, your attention rests upon Negan. The simple black frames perched on the edge of his nose give him a more studious appearance, and with a sense of twisted irony, you begin to relate this moment to being summoned to the principals' office.

His hand pauses in its continuous motion, and he spares you a glance over the rim of his glasses. Taking a moment to savor how uncomfortable you are with a wolfish grin. Horrified, you feel the slight pull of the fabric over your breasts, as your nipples harden in response. Something about this moment is so dangerously unorthodox and _depraved_ , that you can’t help but to react this way. This is uncharted territory of epic proportions, you think, considering the way he’d kissed you so thoroughly.

If you weren’t careful, this man would consume you. 

“Are you going to stand like that all night,” He motions to one of the chairs in front of his desk, “or are you going to take a seat?” 

You choose the latter despite wanting to remain a conceivable distance from him. Negan doesn’t wait for you, instead, he's knee deep in paperwork by the time your ass hits the chair. 

Befuddled, you wait for the inevitable, careful of the wandering thoughts in your head and the light feeling in your chest. Having no choice but to wait, you take the moment to assess him further— your husband. 

The thought makes you grimace outward.

It wasn’t like Negan was unattractive, watching him work unbothered on ledgers, you’re once again given a chance to observe his form up close, and observe you do. The man is all hard limbs and corded muscles, you note, now that he’d shed his leather jacket, leaving him in nothing more than a nondistinct gray t-shirt. His glasses highlight the slight graying beginning at his temple, serving to remind you of how old he is. 

Experienced. 

Minutes tick by as you watch the hands on the clock, and you begin to twitch from anticipation.

“Can you just do it already?” You spit the words out between clenched lips hoping that it will quell the gnawing feeling in your gut.

“Are _you_ telling me what to do, babydoll?” With a huff, he barely looks up as he continues to write for another fifteen minutes, until finally his ministrations slow, coming to scrutinize you fully. 

Maybe sober you would have noticed the warning in his tone, but you pushed further unabashed. “I just need you to do something, please,” You beseech, squirming in your chair as your stomach continues to churn violently. This was the moment before the fall, and you just needed a push.

After a pause, he beckons you forth and you stand, coming around the left side of his large mahogany desk. When your close enough, he swivels in his chair, motioning for you to sit on his lap. “Come on, babydoll.” He settles you with a stare that makes your stomach clench again, and for a moment you ponder whether or not you’ll vomit from sheer nerves. “I don’t bite, _much_.” He relented. 

You sank slowly into his lap, attempting to make as little contact with him as possible. That is until he wraps a warm arm around your waist hoisting you fully onto his lap, so the back of both legs make contact with his hard thighs. “Comfortable,” He teased. Although he could tell from your posture you were anything but. Instead of choosing to antagonize you further, he passes you a lined piece of paper.

“What is this?” You hold the paper a little too close to your face, and Negan snorts before taking it back and rattling off a series of names.

“…Ciprofloxacin… and whoa, shit! Thirty pills of Amoxicillin.” He places the paper in your hands once more, before reaching for a bottle of beer on a coaster. Declining a sip, as your head was starting to feel a little fuzzy, you tried to come to terms with the point that Negan was trying to make.

“This can’t be,” You begin, but Negan quickly interrupts. 

“She also needed IV fluids, seems like your mother was sicker then you thought. Huh, babydoll?” The smile that he gives you makes you want to wipe it right off his arrogant face, and you hate the fact that he kissed you— and you enjoyed it. What were your thinking? “Wanna ask me again. Go on, doll.” He taunts. “Ask me to do dirty, unspeakable things that would make this pussy in my lap _absolutely_ cream itself…” 

With shaky hands you gently set the paper down as Negan takes the chance to nuzzle the area behind your ear, there’s no way he can’t hear the way your heart violently pounds in your chest.

“What do you want?” You finally gather the strength to inquire about his malicious intentions, this was after all, for your mother. Steeling your resolve, you remind yourself of this fact diligently. _This_ was for your mother.

The resounding laugh from Negan is anything but comforting as he takes a moment to answer, pressing you down harder into his lap for emphasis. “What I want,” He softly hums, brushing your hair back to expose your neck and continue his ministrations. “Is for you to bend over my desk, so I can _fuck_ you and wipe that damn innocent look off your face.”

A hand comes up to toy with the thin strap of your dress, as your face begins to heat, appalled and turned on by the lewd promises spilling from his lips, spoken into your heated flesh. Your nipples are beyond hard, and a clear imprint of them through the fabric of your dress shows, beckoning Negan’s dark eyes downward. 

“Well, fuck. You like that idea don’t you, babydoll?” The rumble in his chest increases to a louder volume when you attempt to shift away from him, instead, brushing against Negan’s steadily hardening member. “Take off your top.”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he’s asking. Wouldn’t it just be better to pull your skirt up and be done with it? 

“Don’t let me ask again, Y/N.” He tugs at the zipper of your dress, allowing a cool breeze to caress your back. “Take off your top, baby. Show me those pretty tits that I’ve fantasying about since the moment I saw you.” He continues to coax. However, your muddled brain has decided on something else. Instead, concentrating on the way his damp tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip. An unbridled amount of heat pulls taught against your lower belly.

Before Negan can utter anything else you decide to take the plunge, lest he gets fed up and pushes you. This is the easiest and saddest decision you’ve had to make, as you glance at the list of medication your mother has been using.

Nothing in life is free. 

At least, you reason, the cost is not too unbearable.

With shaky hands, you peel the tight dress from your bodice, slowly revealing the tops of your breasts and the opal necklace Negan had gifted you earlier at dinner. Feeling, rather than seeing, the way Negan reacts to a partially exposed part of you; you continue slightly encouraged until the top half of your dress pools in your lap.

“This,” A warm finger slowly traces the underside of one breast as he pushes you slightly off his lap to get a better look. “is the reason why I gave you the necklace. I knew it’d look like fucking _heaven_ between your tits. _Goddamn_ , babydoll.” 

The necklace was subtle but breathtaking, you had to admit that was your first thought when Negan had presented it to you at dinner. A simple opal pendant with a smaller diamond above it, altogether less than half the size of a penny, sitting on a simple silver chain. 

You weren’t sure who’s gaze had bothered you more— Rachel or your mother. With a strained thank you, you’d tucked the necklace under the collar of your dress and returned to picking at your plate. 

Grasping a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, he tugs gently before twisting with a slight flick of his wrist. Being so close to Negan left every reaction you gave to his touch on full display, as you were literally exposed in his lap. He watched as you squirmed through rapidly darkening eyes as he continued, switching to the other breast until both were hardened peaks. 

“Kiss me, doll.” Hesitantly you lean close to place a soft peck on his lips before pulling back. Negan’s rough hand grasps your chin in its grip before you can retreat any further, pulling you into a deeper kiss like before. The kiss tastes of oranges from his beer and slightly sweet from the wine you had, as he groans into it, continuing to manipulate your breasts so that you can't help but groan into the kiss too. “This is a real kiss, Y/N. This is how I expect you to kiss your husband.” 

You nod breathlessly. 

Negan pulls back, lips barely brushing yours, so when he speaks you can taste the heat of his words on your tongue. “Who am I?” His hard eyes blaze into yours as he waits for you to respond.

“My husband,” Although your answer held a slightly quizzical tone, he found it satisfactory, nuzzling your throat before placing a heated kiss there. 

It seems that Negan was very handsy, duly noted.

“Who do you belong to?” The hand playing between your breasts pauses for a moment to tug lightly on the necklace dangling between them.

“My husband,” You cry out sharply as he tugs on the chain, causing it to bite into your skin. Your skin feels taught and sensitive as he continues to nuzzle your ear, pulling answers periodically from you like a puppet. 

“And what, pray tell, my dearest wife,” He scissors the chain with his finger, before pulling his fingers wider so it wraps around your neck, steadily cutting off your airway. “is my name?”

“Negan,” You cry out as the taught feeling within your belly snaps without warning, sending waves of pleasure pouring unexpectedly through your system. The compression around your neck serving to make your head swim and heighten the pleasure. You cry out again as he releases his grip on your necklace to pluck at both breasts, as your hips jerk in his lap, an after effect as the walls of your core clench violently around emptiness.

“Do you feel that babydoll?” Negan’s gruff voice slowly penetrates the haze that’s enveloped your mind. Pushing aside your confusion, you gaze back at him in question. “That empty feeling, right here,” He cups your sex, his thick fingers briefly meeting the dampness of your underwear, gone before you can process the feeling. “I decide when and where to fuck you. When I _say_ , got that?” 

You nod at his hardening tone, still confused as to the power play he’s just pulled. He pivots in his chair once again, pushing you so that you slightly stumble when you rise from his lap upon his demand. 

“Now get out of my office, and tell Annabella I want to see her.” You nod to let him know that you heard, not even waiting until your arms are fully through the armholes of your dress before you leave his office, the tears already blurring your vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got any ideas? Leave me a comment. I'd love to hear them. Want Negan to say something sassy? Ok, me too. Always looking for suggestions.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today marks a year on AO3 and the responses I've gotten to my stories, and the way I've grown is amazing! Thank you for reading. Thank you for liking and sharing! Thank you. Thank you. I'm updating ALL my stories today, so, why not stay awhile?

That night you dreamt you sat in the corner booth of your favorite diner, accompanied by Jesus. You gaze at him uneasily as a faceless waitress places a strawberry milkshake between you two.

There are two straws.

He motions for you to go first, and you do so, taking a sip of the cool drink and even plucking one of the cherries off the top. Your favorite. 

It's an odd scene as he begins to talk, his mouth unmoving as he sips from the shake. Instead, his voice echoes through the sound system that had only a moment ago been playing a Coldplay song. 

“Why are you so unhappy, Y/N. Didn’t you pray to me— on multiple occasions, might I add— to save you from your misery?” The narrowing of his eyes is the only indication that it’s his voice playing over the speakers as he watches you. 

You splutter in response, surely he can’t be serious? And yes— you did pray for him to end your agony. But you meant something along the lines of a stray bullet— a quick death. _This_ was worse. He and his father really did have a sick sense of irony.

“Isn’t premarital sex a sin?” You snark back, turning sideways in the booth to bring your knees up to your chin. There is absolutely no one in the diner and you ponder the scenery out the window as you wait for yourself to wake up. It seems, not even in your dreams, could you escape the pressing thoughts in your head. 

Jesus’s voice snarks back through the sound system,“You’re married aren’t you?”

You snatch the milkshake from his hands, unable to take the familiar condescending look that you’ve beginning to know so well from Negan, “Look’s like we're both without something, huh?” You taunt, taking a bigger pull from his straw.

“You’re going to have one hell of a hangover, by the way,” You look up from your stolen milkshake only to find him closer then you’d expect, in what feels like slow motion, you watch one of his hands slowly come up to touch your temple, “right _here_.”

“Ugh!” You shoot out of bed immediately grasping your temples, and regretting it almost instantly as they throb violently beneath you sweaty palms. Thank goodness for the thick curtains in your room, the thought of waking up to a sunny room threatens to make you ill, and you lay back gingerly in bed, as a wave of nausea threatens to pull you under. 

Everything hurts. Your head, your heart. Hell, even your neck, you sulk, as you absentmindedly rub the slight laceration, courtesy of Negan. After knocking on several doors, and completing the humiliating task of telling Annabella that Negan requested her presence, you’d shucked your dress and slipped under the covers of your bed without a second thought.

So _this_ was the dreaded hangover that you’d heard so much about. Being just nineteen when the world had self-destructed, you’d had nothing more than a couple sips of beer at family gatherings. Last night had been a first of many and it seems like today would be no different. 

After you’d gained the strength to lift your head from the pillow, you carefully grab the glass of water sitting on your bedside table. An audible groan leaving your mouth as you greedily gulp the water, disappointed when the dry feeling in your mouth does not automatically dissipate. 

With another surge of energy, you brace yourself on the edge of the bed, moving your body slowly towards the en-suite bathroom. Your bathroom is small and white, containing a tub that doubles as a shower, as well as a modest vanity. Gracelessly you sank onto the toilet, stark naked, breathing an audible moan of relief while you relive your bladder. When you’re done you decide to hop into the shower, once again not believing that this luxury is so readily afforded to you. 

Standing under the lukewarm stream, you take the time to mull over the dream you’d had last night. Never before had you participated in one so vivid and as strange as that. But the only new variable, you deduced, was you large consumption of alcohol and Negan. 

Negan, your husband. You wondered what he was doing now, as Sherry had mentioned, that he spent most of the day out on collections, antagonizing the masses. 

When you could no longer stand the pounding in your head, you reached for one of the towels hanging on a hook and wrapped it around your body, coming to stand before the mirror. You gaze back at your reflection, studying the way your eyes are slightly rimmed with red and swollen from the tears you shed before following into a restless sleep. There was nothing you could do about the faint red mark around your neck, and you hated to wear the necklace, not only because it rubbed against the laceration making it sore, but it also served to remind you of who owned you. 

Surely, it was nothing more than another power play. That seemed to be Negan’s favorite move. 

So with another sigh of resignation, you trudge to your wooden dresser shuffling through the dresses not seeing anything you like. Putting on a dress was the last thing you wanted to do, especially when you felt so shitty. So you lowered your standards and moved to your wardrobe, finding a sleeveless, yet high collared dress that hit mid-thigh. After slipping it on, you tried to tame your hair as best as you could, before giving up and slipping on your beaten Converse. 

Your mind seems to be on a one track course as you retrace your steps to the parlor, in hopes that someone will steer you towards the nearest painkillers. 

“Well, look who it is,” Amber raises her glass from her place at the bar. She’s next to Rachel who has an undisguised look of loathing on her face. “Sleeping Beauty has finally graced us with her presence.” The girls all give you a friendly greeting, but its Annabella that gets up to meet you at the door; and your grateful as she settles you with a hug, obviously remembering the state in which you’d turned up at her room last night. 

“You slept through breakfast,” At your inquiring look she helpfully informs you that its just past ten. “Why don’t we go get you something to eat?” 

“And some painkillers?” You croak, sinking into the woman’s embrace, grateful for her kindness. 

An hour later you’re in the same dining room from last night, having just downed several aspirins. The room’s empty, except for you and Annabella, as well as a loan kitchen staff member who’d brought in your tray of food. Biting into your dry toast, you wait for an inquisition of some kind but are relieved to get none. Rather, Annabella sits across from you, her curvy form pulled into a plunging black dress that flairs at the waist, as she studies the ceiling. 

“What was it like outside?” She finally breaks the silence and you look up from your fruit to meet her eyes. 

“Outside,” She prompts again, her eyes taking on the same expression from the other night when she’d listen to Simon regale, in your opinion, what were exaggerated tales from his collections.

You swallow the food in your mouth, trying to decide the best way to answer her. “There were moments when it seemed fine,” Pausing to clear your throat, you look over her head for a moment to meet the eyes of a dying General Wolfe. “You know? There were no signs of the dead, and there was enough food to eat. Other days…”

“Weren’t so good.” She finishes, and your grateful when she lapses into silence, allowing you to finish your meal.

“Simon told me that some of the Saviors _and_ Negan would be gone on an overnight trip to Hilltop,” She starts as you both get up from the table and head back towards the parlor. “Amber wants to have a movie day.” 

“There’s a _working_ TV here?” You marvel at the idea of being able to watch television again, the idea almost makes you dizzy, or maybe it was your hangover. 

“We have to share it with Negan’s men, but most of them we’ll be gone soon. So now’s as good as any,” You stop her before she can open the door to the parlor, and she turns to meet your eyes. She’s only taller than you because of the heels, but you’re sure that she’s the same height as you. 

“Thank you,” You finally say after a moment, because you need to say it. She’s done so much

Settling you with a concerned look, her face completely void of the easy smile you’d seen moments ago, she begins to whisper vehemently, “You’re okay, aren’t you? I know Negan can come off… a little brutish.” You snort at the gross understatement, but rush to quell her misgivings. You don’t want anyone to think you can’t handle this. “If you ever— and I mean _ever_ — need me to tap in for you, just let me now, okay?”

Your eyes water as she pulls you in for a hug, touched once again by her friendship. “Now, come on,” She urges opening the door allowing you to go inside first. “Don’t let Rachel see you cry, ‘kay?”

Taking her advice you wipe your eyes discretely as you step into the parlor making a beeline for the closest bookshelf. There’d been a time when your favorite thing to do was curl up on your front porch with a good book and a cup of tea. 

Maybe that time had come again.

You took your time browsing through the shelves, plucking a couple of titles to take back to your room, but nothing seems to catch your interest. 

“Music more your taste, Y/N?” Amber saunters over to you barefoot with two glasses of wine in her hand. You take one even though you think it's too early to be drinking, and the residual effect from your first hangover still bears over your head.  

“Music,” You ask, after taking a sip like she instructs. She clinks her glass against your own before motioning for you to follow her. You do so and observe a back wall filled to the brim with different variations of music devices. There’s a boombox, a record player, and even a CD player. The wall to floor shelves overflow with containers of cassette tapes, CDs, and records of all genres. You run your hand over one of your favorite band's first album and begin to tear up. 

People don’t appreciate the small things until they’re gone, you realize.

Amber waves blearily before wandering back over to the bar. She has no idea what’s she done. 

What this means to you.  

Alone, you have time to consider your newly discovered treasure trove. It’d been so long since you’d heard music. Now, here were what must have been over a thousand music options at your fingertips. You’re not sure where to begin. 

There are so many things you should be worrying about, or at least be attempting to do. You should be checking to make sure that your mother is actually getting her meds, and is not being cheated. You should be berating Simon, demanding to know where your brother is. 

But instead, for the first time in months— sinking onto the soft window seat, reclining against a set of pillows, and placing the noise canceling headphones over your ears— you relax. The sound of Negan’s other wives moving around the room is blissfully drowned out, and as the beginning riffs of your favorite song float to your ears, you smile.

Hours go by and you spend your time, sipping wine and memorizing every word to your old favorite songs. The times that your eyes aren’t blissfully closed, you study the view outside your perch. From very high up, you have a fragmented view of The Sanctuary’s front yard. It’s endless miles of concrete surrounded by a large fence. But beyond that is miles of woods, farther then the human eye can physically see.

When you were younger you’d dreamed of being a princess locked away in an ivory tower. How cruel was God, now you really were. 

The sun is at its highest point when you decide to stretch your legs, you’re pleased to find that a significant amount of time has passed without any residual thoughts sticking to your conscious. 

“Having fun?” You haven’t had to make direct eye contact with Sherry since last night, and the image of Simon’s hand on her thigh pushes its way to the front of your mind almost immediately. “You seemed lost in thought, everything okay?” You shrug, plucking a grape from the fruit platter nearby. Negan really does know how to spoil his wives, there’s no denying that.

“How was last night?” She wonders, and oh, you’d like to ask her the same. You’d knocked on her door last night only to find her room empty. You can only imagine, what she’d been doing. 

Actually, you’d rather not. Annabella seems to be the only safe card in the deck, and you weren’t interested in seeing what happened when one of Negan’s rules was broken.

“Fine,” You answer shortly. Her blue eyes are sympathetic, as she follows you around the parlor. Deciding to get another drink you cross the room with her close on your heels. She knows, you think. But not wanting to deal with the repercussions of that truth, you decide to play dumb. 

“Step on up, honey.” Victoria gestures airly from her place behind the bar when you approach. “What can I get you?”

You stare a bit dumbly at the rows of bottles behind her, before deciding on another glass of wine. Sherry’s quite persistent and stays on you, as you begin to par-ooze the shelves for a new CD. A pink CD holder catches your eye, its tucked away in a bin on a bottom shelf, and you reach forward to grab it. Sherry obviously getting the hint, disappears with a soft squeeze to your shoulder slipping past the parlor door. 

**Property of Eliza May**

The words are written in an almost indecipherable penmanship. It’s a thick case, which you assume must have belonged to a teenage girl. Opening it, the first CD simply reads, **The beginning of everything.** Intrigued you press the disc into the mandated slot, and place your headphones on. With bated breath, you’re surprised when a raspy, yet feminine voice begins to speak.

**I’m not sure why I’m doing this. My mother seems to thi—**

“You guys wanna watch that movie now,” Annabella checks the clock on the wall. It’s a little past noon, and you press pause before turning to her. “We can eat our lunch in the media room,” She suggests.

“Oh, we need popcorn.” Amber eagerly agrees.

“With lunch, really?” You have to disagree, popcorn sounds delicious right now. At this rate you’d quickly be putting on the pounds that’s you lost from the months you'd had to go without food.

Amber asks if you’d like to accompany her to the kitchen and your heart leaps to your throat. Maybe your mother will be there. You hope that she will, the thought of seeing her makes your throat tighten. You didn’t realize how lonely you felt surrounded by all these strangers until now. You could really use a hug from your mother. Taking Amber’s outstretched hand, you prepare to leave.

“So the moment Negans leaves, you start breaking his rules,” From her reclined position on the couch, Rachel’s eyes narrow. “You bitches are really asking for the iron, huh.” Her attention then returns to painting her nails. An atrocious green color in your opinion. 

“Rules, rules, rules,” Amber makes a gagging motion with her finger and you begin to regret this now that you’ve given it some thought. Negan did say that he’d think about tweaking the boundaries of the shaky agreement you two had. But that, you reason to yourself, could take months. “What are they, even?”

“They're a tentative social construct created by the government to control the masses.” Annabella squints, looking up from her book.

“So whats the difference between Negan and the government?” You wonder aloud, cracking a smile when you get an all around laugh from the inhabitants in the room, sans Rachel. 

“Easy, Negan’s construct is stronger. Impenetrable, like steel.” Sobered by Rachel’s retort, you take a deep breath before you slip through the door with Amber. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! I finally gave in, my perverted mind couldn't take skulking around in the background any longer! I made a Tumblr! You should totally come follow me and chat because I'm so curious about all of you.
> 
> Okay, mwah. x
> 
> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com

“I like you, Y/N.” Your entwined fingers swing between both of you as you walk. “It’s nice having a girl close to my age. Someone to confide in,” Amber’s eyes glitter as she talks. Although, she isn’t looking at you. Farther up the hallway, a lone figure leans against the wall and as you approach you’re able to closely examine the person.

“That’s Mark,” Amber squeals into your ear, her hand becomes deceptively tighter eliminating your chance to wiggle away. “Come, I want you to meet him.”

Like you have a choice.

Mark, for all the trouble that you think being in a relationship might cause, seems to be worth it, appearance wise that is. You think in the old world, he could have been a model. Catching his profile, you take in his chiseled jawline and the way his messy blonde hair falls in front of his blue eyes.

“Baby,” Amber lets go of your hand and runs into his arms, uncaring of her surroundings. Hastily, you glance around to make sure no ones watching the couple passionately embrace. “Babe, wait.” She breaks their kiss. 

“This is Y/N,” You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, the smile he shoots you is friendly enough but this entire situation puts you at a disadvantage. Somehow, somewhere, along the storyline. You’ll pay for this. “She’s Negan’s newest plaything.” 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He grasps your hand, his large palm enveloping yours entirely, giving it a squeeze. “What are you ladies up to?”

“We’re going to the kitchen,” You glance at Amber, to indicate with your eyes what you’re thinking. But Amber is oblivious to your intent, and you have a fleeting thought. If she feels so strongly for Mark, why risk it with Negan? Surely working for points couldn’t be that bad? 

“Aren't we, Amber?” You try again but she waves you off, instead choosing to give you a series of confusing directions that make your brow furrow. 

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?” She shoos you away, and you have no choice but to brave the daunting hallways of The Sanctuary. 

They’re even more confusing then you remember, and the moment you reach a dead end you give up on following Amber’s direction and decide to ask the next passerby. 

“Excuse me,” You sheepishly call to a group of women passing by with baskets of laundry. They size you up pretty quickly before directing you towards the main floor.

You’re immediately assaulted by the sounds and people of The Sanctuary. You hadn’t been paying much attention the first day Negan had dragged you through the busy stalls of workers, and stepping onto the main floor is quite overwhelming. As you walk, rather than shy away from you, people hackle you, shoving their products in your face.

“I’ll come back later,” You gently promise an old woman who seems to be selling knitted goods. Your eyes rest on a burnt orange cardigan in genuine interest. From what you’d gathered, you had unlimited points at your fingertips. 

Oh, the irony. To be rich, yet to have so little. 

You find yourself drawn to the main door, recognizing the familiar sight of Negan’s men. Tempted further away from your initial quest, you daintily step through the doors of The Sanctuary and outside for the first time in two days. The sun on your skin immediately envelopes you in a loving embrace and you pause for a moment to soak it in. You felt like a prisoner seeing the outside world for the first time in years. Slightly lifted by the feeling you begin an eager search for your brother. There’s a 50/50 chance that he’s somewhere amongst the large group of men. 

You maneuver through trucks and motorcycles alike, successfully managing to not draw as much attention as you’d originally thought. It seemed everyone was diligently at work. You could get away with this, you’re sure. 

What little breath you held in your lungs escapes you in a small _whoosh_ as Negan presses you up against the surface of the RV you’d been in the process of slinking by. You gaze into his beaming eyes, noticing the way they cloud with emotions, and immediately a sinking feeling forms in your belly.

“It seems, babydoll,” His glove covered palm rises to grasp a strand of hair that's escaped your messy bun, “that you’re not one for following the rules, and here,” He gestures around the both of you airily, “they’re pretty fucking important.”

“You said I couldn’t see my mother. I was looking for Kaleb, my brother,” You weakly insist. This is a game, you realize, and Negan’s gearing up for his next move. His dark eyes beseech you with an indecipherable look as he takes a minute to ponder this. 

Finally, a smile unravels across his lips, a row of shiny white teeth glaring back at you, “I did say that, babydoll. You’ve got me there.”

Relieved, you allow yourself to relax a fraction of a tenth. 

“Beg me,” Your head whips up in surprise and both of your expressions clash. A question is poised upon your lip. 

Negan cocks a brow.

“Please, Ne— _husband_ ,” You instantly correct yourself. “Can I please see Kaleb?”

You watch as he practically purrs in delight, stepping closer so that every inch of his front is pressed up against yours. The zippers of his leather jacket bite into your skin, as he claims your mouth roughly with his. This is so unlike the other instances where Negan had kissed you. This was different, rougher, almost as if he was trying to eat you alive. Instinct kicks in, as you realize that this is what he meant by begging.

You wrap your arms around his neck groaning into the kiss as he moves a leg between yours to part them, “Please.” You further implore, although what you’re begging for, you’re unsure of.

“You gonna be a good wife while I’m gone?” You nod hesitantly as his warm lips move against your neck. There are people watching your exchange, you’re sure of it. His mouth leaves a trail of fire that warms you, and you come to the startling realization that you hadn’t even realized you were cold. 

“Yes, husband.” You softly mewl, taking his glove covered thumb into your mouth, suckling gently as you watch his eyes slowly darken. 

“That’s my good little wife,” His other hand comes up to pull at the neckline of your dress, revealing the mark around your neck. “Who do you belong to?”

He pulls the necklace from under your dress, “My husband.”

“Who’s your husband, babydoll?” His hands cup your ass, tearing a gasp from you, as the material of his jeans rubs against your dampening sex. 

His name falls from your lips like a prayer and a soft curse all rolled into one. 

“Dwight,” He barks into the side of your neck, and you bury your face into his jacket. You _knew_ people had been watching, “go get my brother-in-law.”

“If I see that necklace hidden again,” He places one last bruising kiss on your lips before stepping away. “I’m going to wrap it around your neck twice, and fuck you till you pass out cold.” 

Catching your breath and shifting your dress back into place, you reply, “Yes, husband.” 

“Y/N,” Kaleb calls eagerly, and you drink in the sight of him. He looks different, you realize, as he swaggers toward you. Donned in a fitted pair of jeans, new boots, and a cargo vest. He’s so unlike the last image you’d held in your mind of him. He’s taller, yet, hasn’t grown an inch. 

He stops shy of you, looking over your shoulder at Negan, for permission.

“Go on, brother. Remember what I told you?” Before you can say anything, Kaleb envelops you in his arms. Immediately you melt into your brother's embrace, soaking in his energy. You’re only older by two minutes, but you take your role as big sister seriously. He’s alive and in your arms. You mentally tick the items off your list. 

“Are you going out there?” You hands flit around him, wiping a grease smudge on his face, and zipping his jacket all the way up. He’s almost a head taller then you, but you still can’t help feeling as if you have to take care of him. 

“Yeah, I am,” He gazes over your head into presumably Negan’s eyes. “I’m going to prove myself.”

“Please be careful,” You beg, your request is muffled against his jacket and you pull away so that he can hear here you. Grasping his face, you whisper vehemently, “I need you to come back to me, Kaleb. You're the only thing keeping me tethered.”

“He will,” Negan chimes in behind you, he moves closer until the leather of his jacket softly brushes against your skin. “Kaleb is family, and there’s nothing more important than that, babydoll.”

With one last kiss on your cheek and a soft promise to see you soon, he’s gone. 

“You have something to say to me?” Heat blossoms across your left ass cheek and you turn sharply, taking in Negan’s coy expression. The corner of his mouth lifts as he takes in the look of surprise on your face, and the way your mouth drops open. 

“Thank you, Negan.” The sincere look on your face makes him overlook your faux pas. 

“Get back inside,” He nods in acceptance. "I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

A little while later you return to the parlor, setting the bowl of popcorn on the table, before making a beeline for the bar. Amber’s nowhere to be seen.

“Rough day,” You pour yourself a glass of a colorless liquid and gag when it slides down your throat.

“The roughest.” You answer Annabella, ignoring the look of concern she shoots you.

“I like your sweater,” Sherry compliments from a neighboring stool. She looks tired and you can tell she’s been crying, but its the least of your worries. Your mother hadn’t been in the kitchen and now Kaleb was off playing soldier for Negan. You’d never felt more alone. 

You shrug taking the seat next to her, “Do you ever feel like sometimes you're watching yourself from outside your own body? Like this life isn't yours anymore?” You ask after a beat of silence because it’s been weighing on you for awhile.

“All the time, Y/N.” She sighs for a moment, and you regret asking her instantly. "All the time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I used to post once a week but I just decided to post whenever I have the chapter done. This could be a good and a bad thing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler but still necessary. Next chapter...you get Negan all to yourself.

“There we go. That didn’t hurt, now did it?” Doctor Carson pulls his gloves off with a snap, and you have the urge to punch him in his smug face. Because inserting the contraceptive implant had hurt. A lot. 

“Now before I go,” He idles at the front of your bed. “Are you sure that you don’t need the emergency contraceptive pill?”

“No,” You bite our between clenched teeth. “Negan hasn’t had sex with me.” You make sure to enunciate each word clearly. He’d asked you multiple times and each had been more humiliating than the last. 

He leans forward to pat you on the shoulder and you pull away from his freakishly cold hands.

“Don’t worry you’ll be able to contribute soon enough,” He comments, and you have the sudden urge to pull up the plunging neckline of your dress as he surveys you with his abnormally wide eyes. You wanted him out of your room, _now_. Sensing your distaste, Carson leaves, accompanied by one of Negan’s men who’d stood by your door the entire time. Why you’re not sure. To hold you down if you’d refused?

The last thing you wanted was a baby, and when The Sanctuary’s doctor had arrived at breakfast, Annabella had gently informed you that’s you’d be getting the implant. They all had one. Generally, you’d been relieved. You didn’t want a baby, especially Negan’s.

But with your left hand throbbing from where Carson had grabbed you a little too roughly, it serves to remind you that Negan would have you by the end of the week—there was no doubt about it. He’d be back soon enough, and you weren’t sure how you felt. Nervous? Scared?

Mostly you focused on where your mother could be. You only had several more hours before Negan and the rest of his men would be back, a fleeting chance to find her, so it was best you go now before Annabella or Amber came looking for you. Tugging your cardigan back on, you retrace your steps as best as possible to the main floor before making your way to the kitchen. 

It’s a large industrial sized room filled with appliances new and old, and many of the worker's pause, asking if you need anything. You wave them away searching for your mother.  

“Momma,” The endearment springs from your lips as you finally locate her near the sink washing heads of lettuce. She’s hunched over, diligently at work, and you think she probably didn’t hear you the first time, so you call again. 

Her eyes flick around the room, before coming to rest on you with a reprimanding look, “Keep your voice down, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry, mom.” You persist lowering your voice. You’re positively beaming and you wait as she slowly dries her hands before fully addressing you. “How are you? You look good, momma. The medicine must be working.” There’s color back in her cheeks and her eyes are brighter—she looks stronger. It serves to remind you of why you’re doing this, and while your situation isn’t the best it becomes slightly bearable. 

She hums a bit picking up the collider before moving down the counter toward a cutting board, “Yes…the medicine…”

You lean against the counter, wary of the people in the kitchen that watch your exchange from the corner of their eyes. Fingers crossed this wouldn’t get back to Negan. You knew you were taking a large risk, but this was your mother and not even a bat-wielding maniac could keep you away from her. Especially when she was so close. 

“I’ll help you,” You insist already reaching for a knife and a head of lettuce. With a protest dying on her lips you begin to chop. 

A heavy silence falls between the two of you.

“You’re drawing too much attention, Y/N.” Your mother finally sets down her knife with a heavy sigh several minutes before reaching out to still your motions. You soak in the feeling of her touch. You hadn’t realized it till this instance—this was the first time she’d initiated any affection. “You should go. Everyone’s too distracted with you here and it’s good for no-one if meals get behind schedule.”

“Okay, I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t,” Her quiet request speaks volumes and your throat tightens as you consider her words. 

“I don’t want you here,” She reiterates, just as quiet as the word before. Funny how a _word_ , which in its most abstract form—is really nothing more than a carefully formed sound and well-placed enunciation—could bear so much damage. _Don’t_. “I appreciate what you're doing but this isn’t right. What you’re doing…”

Your hand comes down on the counter making a reverberating sound, interrupting her before she can go on and confuse you any more than you already are. This was not how you saw this exchange going, far from it. Your stomach twists and you’ve never felt more pitiful— _violated_. 

“What? Spit it out!” Your voice steadily rises drawing everyone's attention. “What are you trying to say because you’re not making any fucking sense, Mom.”

“Mom! _Mom_!” You call her name because she’s turned away from you. She’s ignoring you and the thought is unbearable. “Just tell me what you’re thinking, please.” You beg. 

“We wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t…you wouldn’t be…”

“I wouldn’t be what?” Your chest heaves and you feel like something has grabbed a hold of your ankle, threatening to pull you under. This moment in itself feels very precarious. 

“You wouldn’t have to be spreading your legs, Y/N—like a slut!” Your mouth drops open in disbelief, and you step back as if she’s actually slapped you—although she might as well have.

“I’m sorry that’s how you feel. But for the record, it wasn’t a fucking choice.” You back away stiffly, highly aware of the eyes that follow your movements.

“Wait, sweetie.“ She sighs heavily, scrubbing her face roughly with her palm before looking anywhere but you. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. Come work in the kitchens with me. We can pay off the medication together?” She weakly suggests, but you’re already shaking your head viscously. The sound of your heartbeat is a thundering vibration in your ears as you scrutinize her face. 

There wasn’t a thing she could say that could make this moment better—make up for the truth that she’d spoken. You _were_ a slut or at least you were going to be soon. But that wasn’t what bothered you so much, it was the audacity of your mother to insinuate that she was essentially ashamed of you. That hurt worse than anything Negan could ever do to you. 

It’s funny how there are moments in life that are so significant and from that point on, there is a before and after. 

Before—was this morning. Your biggest concern had been finding your mother and making sure it wouldn’t get back to Negan.

After—was dealing with the repercussions of your choices to go behind Negan’s back, as the blowout between your mother and you would surely get back to him.

But until that happened you were hell-bent on drowning your feelings in liquor. That was what they called it right? Finding your answers at the bottom of a bottle and all that _shit_.

You chuckle to yourself humorlessly before taking another swig of whiskey, all the while, blearily wondering what questions the bottle that dangled from your fingertips could answer. You had so many.

It hurts to think. So you decide not to, placing the bottle gingerly on your nightstand before curling into a ball. Sleeping was better than dealing with your brain replaying and inflating your mother’s words. 

She didn’t want to see you. You would bring attention to her—embarrass her.

She was embarrassed by you, she pitied you. They all did. 

You didn't understand how she could feel this way. This was all for her. 

You grasp your pillow from beneath your head and cram it against your face, hoping it will stifle the intrusive thoughts. 

“ _ARGHHHH_ —!” Your scream cuts off midway and chokes on a sob. You clutch the pillow tighter to your face hoping that no-one will hear you. You must look pitiful, coiled into a fetal position as you desperately try to hold yourself together. A pillow still covers your face, which is no doubt covered in makeup. But you scream and scream and kick and yell until there’s nothing left. 

**_Knock knock._ **

The sound penetrates your hazy mind and when you lift your head, the world spins. 

“Come in!” Your words are slightly garbled. 

Your door slowly opens and a male figure pokes his head in apprehensively.

“Dinners in less than thirty minutes,” You glance at your alarm clock in confusion. How long had you been asleep? Sitting up in bed, you pull your knees to your chest and study the man before you. His blonde hair is pulled back in a favorable man bun. You heed the way his green eyes cloud with worry as you both simultaneously take each other in. He’s all angled jaw and scruffy beard, broad shoulders encased in a jean jacket, as he hangs back in the doorway. 

“What’s your name?” You finally ask, hoping that if you focus on something it’ll distract you from the emotions that immerse you like a heavy blanket.

“Dwight,” He keeps his foot in the door so that it’s partially ajar and makes regular glances over his shoulder.

“I don’t bite.” You stand up slowly before deciding to sit down again. 

“Are you fucking drunk?”

“Are you judging me…?”

“Dwight.” He might have told you that already. The thought makes you giggle. You’re so silly!

“Are you judging me, Dwight?” You finally squint at him. 

You’re not drunk but you’d need to be, to get through dinner tonight. 

He shuffles forward with a huff and you don’t have the urge to fight him as he picks up the untouched heels from the foot of your bed before going towards you. He urges you to stand and you do so, noting the way he softly flinches when you grab his shoulder.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because I heard you in the kitchen with your mother,” He shrugs, indicating for you to step into the other shoe.

You nod, considering what you can give him to show how appreciative you are. “I have the implant. We could fuck and I wouldn’t have a baby.” He sighs heavily still gazing up at you from his place at your feet. Deliberately he straightens, coming to tower over you as he reaches his full height. 

“Honey, do you know what would happen to me if I so much as looked at you funny?” He doesn’t wait for your response. Instead grasping your elbow and leading you out into the hallway. 

He answers your curious gaze after a moment, “The iron.”

“The iron?”

Nodding, he suggests, “You better sit as far away from Negan as possible, especially with that mouth of yours.” He shakes his head, leaving you in the hallway outside the dining room. Inside the room is filled with quiet conversation and taking a moment to straighten your dress, you stumble in. 

There’s a pause in the conversation and you heart plummets when you realize that Negan’s seated at the head of the table. Rachel firmly planted in his lap with Victoria behind him, massaging his shoulders. He looks up from where his face had been engrossed in Rachel’s neck to study you.

“You’re fucking pushing it, doll.” You give a nod in acknowledgment before taking the last seat. Directly across from Negan at the other end of the table. Great. 

He doesn’t let up. 

“Did you get your implant?” You nod mutely.

“I’m sorry. I _cannot_ fucking hear you,” He leans forward and you notice Annabella’s concerned look from the corner of your eye. “Did you become fucking mute while I was gone?”

You snatch the glass of wine set in front of you by one of the kitchen workers, “Yes, _Negan_.”

“Atta, girl.” His eyes stay on yours as he trails several kisses up Rachel’s neck. If he’s looking for a reaction it’s not coming from you and you gaze back at him numbly in challenge. When he finally does look away you turn your gaze out the window and keep it there for the rest of dinner. Rachel stays firmly planted in Negan’s lap and it’s almost sickening to watch, considering that she literally spoon feeds him. 

Your mother isn’t serving dinner tonight and you push the food around on your plate, considering whether or not it's a good idea to excuse yourself. 

“I’ve got gifts for all my dear wives,” You barely resist the urge to roll your eyes when Rachel claps her hands like a well-trained seal and squeals in response. This time you barely blink when Negan let’s out a shrill whistle.  Fat Joey comes running in on cue. 

Just like last time Fat Joey makes his way around the table passing out respective items to the wives while Negan looks on with an unreadable expression. 

“Here.” Joey pushes an item into your hands and you look up startled. How long has Negan been watching you? From across the table, your gazes clash and you wonder what he must see. You hadn’t had the time to fix your makeup, wipe your eyes—smile.  

“Kaleb said you like music,” Is his only comment and you thank him graciously as you clutch the portable CD player in your hands. 

“Now, for my favorite girl. Simon,” He gets up from the table and leaves the room momentarily. You find some satisfaction in the way Negan pushes Rachel off his lap so that he faces Annabella. 

“You shouldn’t have,” She starts sarcastically, but in the very next moment there’s a change in her posture as she straightens, leaping out of her chair. 

Simon carries a weapon of some sort toward her, but that’s as far as you can focus on. 

“That right there is a Chinese war sword, Anna B.” He proudly announces. It’s odd seeing Negan like this—genuinely happy—and you wonder about their antiquity. 

“Fucking wicked! Does this mean…” At his affirmative, her eyes gleam before she carefully slips the weapon back into its sheath. She launches herself into Negan’s outstretched arms with a squeal, placing kisses everywhere on his face but his lips. “Thank you.” She cheers, you’ve never seen Negan this cheerful. It’s almost as if you’re viewing a completely different version of him, but as abrupt, as it’s here it’s gone as he sets her down. His smile replaced by the familiar smugness you’ve come to know so well. 

“Alright,” In a swift action he throws Rachel over his shoulder, making her squeal when he lightly swats her on the ass, “time to go celebrate a job well- _fucking_ -done.”

The eyes of General Wolfe bore into the side of your head as you take another generous sip of wine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on Tumblr, we should totally be friends.
> 
> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got a new chapter, dolls. I think I've made you all wait long enough. Without further ado, SMUT!

“Joey,” From across the room he points to himself and you nod sagely, beckoning him over. 

You hand him your new CD player and the half-empty bottle of wine that’s you’ve been nursing, “Take these to my room and bring me some CD’s to listen to,” He shuffles nervously for a moment before you urge him to say what’s on his mind. 

“Spit it out,” You coax. 

“Its just that—well um, Dwight wanted me to—” You interrupt his stuttering as it’s becoming quite taxing, although seeing him flustered is _slightly_ amusing—you’ll give Negan that much.

You cock your head, leaning in close enough so that only he’ll hear, “You’re not saying ‘no’ to me, are you, Joey?” He shakes his head frantically in response and you throw him a slight smile. “Then I suggest you do what I said—quickly—and if Dwight has a problem, tell’m to come to me. Okay?” You give his sweaty hand a brief squeeze and he’s gone shortly after.

“Now you’re getting it, Y/N,” Amber smirks before sauntering out of the room, you’d forgotten about the other people around the table, but you realize you have their full attention now. Although, you note. Simon and Sherry are nowhere to be seen. _Figures_. You’re starting to understand how life at The Sanctuary works, there are rules—but only in the presence of Negan, and purely at your own risk. 

Victoria excuses herself from the table. 

“What was all that about?” Annabella scoots down the table as the kitchen staff begins to clean up the remnants of dinner. You shrug at her question before lifting your glass to your lips. Her eyes flicker between the glass of wine and your face, for a moment. An observation that you miss completely. In the depths of Annabella's subconscious, a seed of concern is planted. 

“You okay?” You give the same reply.

“Can I ask you something, Annabella?” She nods her assent but your gaze is trained over her shoulder attempting to collect your thoughts, which seem to move farther away, the closer you move towards them. Wasn’t your mind supposed to be the one constant and—concrete aspect of life?

It’s a conundrum, really.

“Y/N!” She snaps her fingers in front of your face and you smile your apologies. “Did something happen? Where’ve you been all day, sweetie?”

So many questions. All with such conflicting answers. 

“I’m fine. The implant hurt and I just wanted to lay down for awhile…” You assure her as the throbbing in your head becomes insistence. You stand, and she follows you out. 

“It’s only supposed to hurt for a couple of minutes,” She comments in concern. “Is it still hurting?”

You tell her that it’s not, even though it hurts to lift the entirety of your left arm. You could handle the pain, though. There were worst things in life. “I just wanted to ask you about how it’s going to go… with Negan.” The thought had been at the back of your mind for awhile.

“I’m nervous,” You softly admit into the emptiness of the hallway. Admitting it out loud, allows the truth to leak from your words. “What is it like?”

Surely she’d know. You study her profile from the corner of your eye. Taking in the way some of the curls escape from her updo and softly rest at the nape of her neck. She was Negan’s favorite, after all.

“I ha—” She stops to collect her words, and from a feeling, you can’t explain, you know you’ve hit a sensitive topic. “Every arrangement with Negan is different, Y/N. Maybe I’ll tell you mine one day, kay?” She walks away hastily without another word leaving you to process her words. Could there really be more than one kind of arrangement with Negan? Pushing the thought away you head towards the stairs. 

Your heels make a clunking soon against the flooring and making a rash decision, you pull them off hastily. Taking some satisfaction when you throw them with a pent-up rage. They hit the wall with a loud clunk and the heel of one of the shoes goes flying. 

Padding down the hall barefoot, you take the time to consider what you’ll do now. Sleep wasn't an option as you’d just woken up and you didn’t want to return to your room, yet either. Briefly, you play around with the idea of locating Kaleb, but a small part of you protests. You want to boycott your family, have them both worry about how you’re doing for a change. Sometimes it seemed you were the only one capable of negative emotions or maybe others just hid them well enough. 

As you get closer to your room the sound of voices becomes louder in an approaching alcove. They pause for a moment and up ahead you see Amber poke her head out of the crevice, “Oh, Y/N. It’s just you,” She lets out of gust of air clutching both her palms to her chest before the pupils of her eye give way to a lackadaisical roll, “we thought you were someone else. Come here!”

We? Your words echo your thoughts and against your better judgment, you do as she says. 

Of- _fucking_ -course. You’d thought you made it pretty clear how you felt about being sucked into Amber’s little rendezvous with her plaything the last time.

“Hey, Y/N.” Your face puckers into a slight grimace as you take in Mark’s easy posture and the way he sags against the wall so careless. You envy that. How does he come off so unbothered? “This is David.”

“Hey, nice to meet you.” He seems, okay, and you take his offered hand tentatively. “I’m Mark’s cousin.” If it wasn’t clear by the similar facial structure and the unsettling green eye, you’re sure of it now. 

“I was just telling David about you, Y/N,” You barely budge as Amber nudges you somewhat suggestively, “we thought it would be nice if we got out of here for a day. The four of us.”

“I have a Jeep,” Mark offers.

Against your better judgment, the idea does slightly appeal to you. Seeing this, Amber takes the inch and runs a mile with it. Beaming she turns to Mark and David, both of which are gazing at you expectantly, “Next week, it is.”

You want to protest but the sound of thunderous heels on metal flooring draws near, and both you and Amber shuffle out of the alcove. Rachel comes stomping in your direction. Her hair is mused and whatever’s upset her must have been pretty bad as her dress isn’t even zipped properly. 

“Negan wants you,” You think she wouldn’t be so upset if there weren’t three additional bodies here to witness her humiliation. She throws a scrap a fabric at you, “and where this.” She spits.

“I should go,” You mumble, watching Rachel’s gait as she sharply turns the corner. You feel oddly sympathetic if anything. Poor girl. This is all she has. You can’t imagine what it must be like to fall in love with a man who has several objects of affection. 

“Good luck,” David’s offhanded comments falls flat as you turn away without another word. For once, you’re appreciative of Negan’s interference, even if it is unintentional.

His eyes follow the subtle sway of your hips, unbeknownst to you. 

* * *

**Knock…knock…**

Pushing the door open to his office, you enter the vast room, stopping short once you pass the threshold.

“Babydoll,” His easy smile greets you as your gaze sweeps around the room, “just the mouth I wanted to see.” You balk at his words but having no choice, shuffle forward when he beckons you closer and around the side of his desk.

“What,” Tugging at the silk nightdress that hits mid-thigh, you stop just within his arms reach. “Rachel wasn’t enough?” You can’t resist getting in at least one jibe. 

“Too eager, doll.” His thumb rubs absentmindedly over his lower lip and you follow the hypnotic motion.  “I want something else. ” His eyes come to rest on your opal necklace neatly cradled in-between the swell of your breasts. 

A lone finger traces the hemline of your nightie. The heat from his palm penetrates the thin silk material and soaks into the meat of your thigh. You’d done as Negan had requested, slipping on the black babydoll, that was actually quite modest, before donning what was soon becoming your favorite possession. 

“Cold, doll?” He swivels in his chair, leaning in so that his hot breath puffs across your chest. The nubs harden instantly, and the familiar knot from before settles in your stomach. You want him to touch you, and doing so, make an attempt to shrug off the cardigan. 

“Leave it on,” You still at his gentle but firm request and wait with baited anticipation. Your head spins with thoughts of your mother's disappointed face before you lock away the images.  

“Rule number one,” Negan roughly tugs at the neckline of your gown. Your breasts tumble forward, exposed in the cool air of the room, “always make sure these _sweet_ little nipples are hard for me.”

“Yes, husband.” The words end with a grunt when he takes one then the other nipple into the moist cave of his mouth. The feeling is electric and as he runs the length of his tongue across the pebbled skin, he catches it with his bottom lip, sucking it once again into his mouth in a continuous motion. “Ah! _Oh_ , Negan.” You let out a breathless response. 

The feeling is maddening. He’s barely touched you anywhere else but the simple motions of his tongue make your skin, tight and sensitive all over. On a whim, you’d forgone panties, unsure if he wanted you to wear any, and you subtly clench your thighs together as your arousal begins to coat your upper thighs.  

His answering grunt is one of pure hunger as he smothers himself between your breasts, twining his hands around your upper thighs to spread you lewdly. The warmth of your heated sex sears into his fingertips which are dangerously close, dampened by your body’s lubricant.

“Rule number two,” He lifts you in his grip, splaying you across his desk, and sliding you forward so that your head dangles off the end, “Every time I call you to my office—no panties.”

“Undo my belt, doll.” Fumbling for a moment you undo the belt, before waiting for further orders. You’re rewarded with a pluck of a nipple. The sensation goes straight to your weeping center. He leans forward, tugging the material of your gown, past your belly button before spreading your legs further apart. “Fucking perfect. You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?” He licks his lips taking in your exposed position.

Squirming under his gaze, you hesitantly voice, "What if I ruin your papers?”

“It’ll be a welcomed improvement,” He atones. “Now, take out my fucking cock.” 

Following his orders, you undo the button of his jeans before the sound of his zipper fills the room. The head of Negan’s member gently hits your face as it springs from its confinement. He’s certainly bigger than most, bigger then your first and only boyfriend, and as he steps closer, you attempt to squirm away as it begins to daunt on you what he intends to do.

“Ah! _Ow_!” The sharp slap against your left breast makes your back arch involuntary before you jerk away. “It’s too big, it won’t fit. I’ve never—” You begin to protest.

“Are you questioning me, doll?” Grasping your hair in his palm, you have no choice but to stare helplessly into his eyes. “Do you really think I’d hurt you?”

You give considerable weight to his question, before answering him, “No, Negan.” Despite the proposition, you’d found yourself in, Negan had done anything and given everything, to make you comfortable. 

“Now, are you going to be a good wife and take your husbands cock down that throat of yours,” You whimper in kind and he releases the grip on your hair to step forward again. “I’ll go slow, baby.”

Gripping both breasts firmly in each hand, he slides into your slack mouth and down your throat, bottoming out with a grunt. You find that from this position, your throat opens involuntarily making it easier to take him down your throat. The act, you soon find, becomes pleasurable. Bucking at the feeling, your hips move involuntarily as he plucks your tender nipples like an instrument, expertly playing your body, as his hips begin to undulate. 

Unable to withstand it any longer, your fingers trail down the expanse of your midriff before stopping short of where you want contact the most. “Don’t you dare touch yourself!” Negan snarls as he leaves your mouth to come around the desk. With your airway free, you suck in a lung full of air, that promptly leaves you, when he lands a harsh tap against your drenched sex. 

“ _Fuck_ , this soaking wet pussy is all mine,” He takes a breast as a prisoner and unable to control it anymore, you let out a long, drawn-out moan. “Say it, doll, I wanna fucking hear those filthy words fall from that _goddamn_ mouth of yours.”

Following his orders, you do so, the word clumsy from lack of experience. He lets go of your breast and guides your mouth back to his member. Thankful for the change in position, you lay on your left side sucking the length of his cock, as he guides your movements.

“Mmm…please,” Unable to take it any longer, you beg for more pressure as his hand dances across your wet flesh. Your words fall on deaf ears. 

“I’m gonna cum, Y/N,” The slapping of his hips against your swollen lips begins to mingle with your throaty moans, alerting any passerby of what was inevitably happening in Negan’s office. The thought surprisingly arouses you to no end, “swallow everything I give you like a good little wife.”

Grunting out his release, his brow furrows in concentration as he watches the way your throat works diligently at his command. 

“Ah, fuck.” He sags back into his chair, pulling you up as he goes so that you're perched before him atop his desk—needy and dripping. He notices so, eyeing your drooling pussy as he tucks himself back into his pants. 

“My wife wants to cum, huh,” You nod minutely as his fingers begin to move within you. The pad of his thumb brings shock waves up your body as he caresses your distended clit, “what kind of husband would I be if I didn’t take care of my wife, hmm?” He hums considering, before reaching forward to tug your cardigan down your arms.

With a loud yelp, that clearly startles Negan, he pauses before his large hands carefully remove the clothing, revealing a prominent bruise in the shape of Doctor Carson’s palm.

Fuck, you internally curse yourself for your lack of awareness. You’d gotten changed in your dark room, in too much of a rush to notice the bruising.

“Who did this to you, baby?” Shivering at the look he gives you, his tone is soft but his eyes speak volumes as he repeats his question in warning. “I may be a lot of things,” He continues, “but I do not tolerate violence towards women—my women, especially.”

You shake your head mutely, trying to get off his desk but it’s useless as the grip on your hip anchors you in place. 

“Tell me, babydoll.” His words are louder now and the tears begin to gradually bead in your eyes. You’re frustrated and with Negan this close you’re unable to think clearly. If you told the truth would he believe you or Carson? The thought scares you. What would he do? “Dwight,” He lets out a sharp whistle and several moments later he comes through the door. You can’t find the time to be embarrassed by what he must have heard. 

Dwight must've noticed the bruise on your arm, because Negan retorts over your shoulder, “ _Steady_ , I didn’t do it.” His voice is cold as steel and you want to protest, for Dwight’s sake, but find your lips are unable to move.

You’re exposed, breasts still bared and the hemline of your gown is dangerously high. But if you don’t turn, Dwight will see nothing more then your clothed back.

“I need the iron ready, and line up every fucker eighteen to forty-two on the goddamn floor,” At his command, you look up from your lap into his heated gaze.

“When do you want it, boss?” Dwight responds after a pause.

“Noon,” Negan’s eyes never leave yours and you swallow heavily at the conviction in his words. “We’re gonna burn every fucker's face until I find out…Who. Hurt My. Wife.”

Your breath becomes disjointed as you consider the number of people that will get hurt because of you if you don’t speak up. 

“It was Doctor Carson,” You blurt, cutting off whatever Dwight was going to say. “I’m sorry…please—don’t hurt anyone. I wasn’t sure if—he grabbed me and…” Wrapping your arms around your middle you attempt to hug yourself, make yourself smaller, as the tears begin to fall faster. 

He yanks you swiftly into his lap and you burrow into his warmth fiercely, unconsciously seeking the affectionate you’d been craving for so long.

“Dwight, leave us.” Negan barks out, and the door shuts quietly after a moment. 

The sound of your loud sobbing rings in Dwight’s ears as he hastily shuts the door, the image of the young girl cradled in Negan’s lap as he mumbles soothing words to her, follows him for the rest of the night. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t think he was done with you yet? Did you?
> 
> ps i'm sorry for the late update, the website crashed mid-edit, and i was like 'lol chill, don't snap'. basically just took a couple of days for me. x

This dream feels somehow different than the others. For one, you’re adorned in a skin-tight, plunging red dress. The length of your frame is inclined against a wall, lightly puffing on a cigarette. You’re not in control of your body, and while it feels as if you’re actually in _it_ , the next moment its almost as if you’re watching in from a distance. You’re completely disabled.

“Hey, baby.” You watch as Negan approaches you from afar, adorned in his signature leather jacket and dark washed jeans. Instead of Lucille, he dangles a set of keys, and as the sound of a car locking, rings out in the background, you take his hand, softly admonishing him.

“You’re late,” You enter through the doors of your favorite diner. Just like before, it’s completely empty. Bypassing the waitress stand, the two of you head towards the corner booth, “you know I don’t like being late. It leaves a bad impression.”

“Relax,” A ghost of a smile appears at the corner of his lips, prompting his dimples to deepen, “what’s he gonna do, doll? Refuse to marry us?”

“Negan. Y/N,” Doctor Carson’s face comes into view. He waves from his seated position. The clicking of your heels on the aluminum floor pierces the silence periodically.

“Father Carson,” Your smile is genuine as you take his outstretched hand, clasping in a warm embrace, “thank you for meeting us here.”

“Of course, I like to get to know the couple beforehand, saves us all the nerves,” The three of you laugh, getting settled into the booth. “I hope you don’t mind. I ordered for the table.”

“Let’s hope there are pancakes or I’ll bash your head in,” Carson’s easy smile never wavers as he and Negan exchange a look, akin to two friends sharing an inside joke.

“So, how’d the happy couple meet?” His eyes eagerly bounce between the two of you before coming to land on your clasped hands. “I just adore a good love story.”

“Well, let’s see. I just got down on one knee and popped the damn question.” Negan starts, “Was it before or after I threatened to leave your sick mother on the side of the road? I always forget.”

“After, sweetie.” Patting his hand comfortingly, you continue for him. You can see yourself from the booth, several feet away, and you take in the dreamy look on your face as you gaze into his dark eyes. “I remember just kneeling on the concrete surrounded by our friends and family, and he proposed. A complete surprise, really, I’d just finished begging him to let my mother come with us…”

“The same mother who can’t even look you in the eyes?” Carson clarifies.

“The very same.”

“Ah, _love_ , it comes to us in many shapes and forms throughout our lifetime. The trick is, understanding which ones are intended to be permanent, from the ones that are only passing.”

The two of you nod along to his words before you watch yourself perk up as if you’d suddenly remembered something very perplexing. “Oh, by the way, Father, Negan’s going to hurt you tomorrow. You might even die,” There’s a lull in conversation as the waitress saunters over with the table order. Thanking her, as she places the food down on the table, you dip a french fry into the side dish of ketchup, casually picking up where you’d left off, “I’m going to cry, and pretend like I feel guilty, to hide the fact that I only have a semblance of a soul left—”

“Hell, she might even lash out at me,” Negan interrupts, and you agree with him, stealing a mozzarella stick from his side plate. He’d gotten his pancakes and then some.

“He’s right. But deep down I’ll just be glad that someone actually gives a shit about me, for once,” The faceless waitress reappears setting down two cokes and a glass of wine. You stop her before she can leave, “I’m sorry. I wanted a coke, also.”

“You asked for red wine, hun.” Without another word, she’s gone.

“She’s always so rude,” You remark to Negan, “why do we keep coming here?”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing us here, babydoll.” A second later, he calls louder. “Babydoll **.** ”

You look up startled from your burger, to retort, “I get it, Negan.”

“ _Babydoll_ ,” The insistent pressure that you’d been trying to ignore is replaced by a sharp pain that blossoms across your left ass cheek. With a squeal, your eyes open to find Negan closer then you’d admittedly thought,  holding a glass of water and painkillers. “C’mon Y/N, take these.”

“You didn’t have to hit me,” With a slight pout you do as he says, sitting up from your reclined position on the couch in his office. He’d insisted upon you laying down for a moment. Several moments later, you’d fell asleep to the sound of shuffling papers and the scratching of his pen.

“I spanked you, there’s a fucking difference,” The low gravely tone of his voice causes you to look up into his eyes. Not being able to withstand the intensity, you turn away. Keeping your eyes deliberately trained downward, you swallow the contents of the cup, before setting it down on the table before you. “Done?” You nod your affirmation.

“Let’s go.”

“Uh, where?”

“My room,” You squirm under the intensity of his gaze. He’s looking for some sign of discomfort, you’re sure of this. He won’t find any.

“Okay,” You don’t want to be alone, especially not now.

The walk back to his room is short as the rooms are located in the same hallway. As soon as you cross the threshold, your senses are immediately enveloped by the aroma you know so well to be Negan—bergamot and cinnamon. The door shuts behind him with a finality, making you aware of your state of dress. 

Completely out of your control, your gaze continues to fall on the four-poster bed adorned with silk sheets. You can hardly decipher any further details as the only source of light comes from a small lamp on the bedside table.

“How’s the arm?”

“S’kay,” You mumble, and it’s the truth. With the number of painkillers Negan had loaded you up with, you wouldn’t be feeling it for awhile. Standing at the foot of Negan’s bed, you take the chance to survey his room while his back is turned, distracted by his bar cart. The room is lascivious, adorned with silk curtains and plush rugs. You'd expect nothing less from him. 

He takes his time, sauntering across the room so you have an adequate amount of time to take him all in before he’s standing before you. The light from the lamp throws shadows across his profile, partially illuminating his handsome features and that damn dimple.

“Hold this,” Handing you a small glass of amber colored liquid, he waits until you’ve firmly clasped it, before grasping the hemline of your nightgown. Slowly your naked flesh becomes revealed to his eyes. “That’s better.” He says with a slight leer, licking his bottom lip before taking the glass back and downing the contents. The fabric hangs from the bend in your elbow and you drop your arms so that it pools at your feet.

Reclining back onto the bed by his elbows, he appears the picture of leisure, the empty glass hanging precariously between fingertips. “Tell me, Y/N. How many boys have attempted to fuck you?”

His dimples deepen at something that crosses his mind, when you answer, “Just one.”

“My pure wife,” He teases, and the humiliation is swift to flood your senses. Collecting in your newly warmed face and the apex between your thighs. Of course, he sees it all, you can’t imagine much gets past him. You wonder briefly if he knows more then he’s actually letting on. “Undress me.”

The byproduct of your arousal becomes locked in your throat as you slowly drop to your feet, unlacing his boots, one by one. His long fingers work indifferently on the zipper of his jeans. The sound mingles with your labored breathing as you continue your assigned task. “That’s my good little wife,” Tugging his jeans down past his trim hips, his member springs free. It’s still as daunting as the last time you’d seen it, and you wonder, how had that managed to fit down your throat.

Quickly, before you can get caught staring, you resume removing the material bunched around his ankles. Ridding his body of the jeans, you glance back towards him for further instructions and notice that he’s removed his shirt.

You’ve never been with a man before, you can’t help but stare blatantly, as he languidly touches himself. The dimples in his cheek deepen, beckoning you forth, as he drawls, “Took you long enough, doll.” You shyly straddle his trim hips, stopping short of where his hand is clasped tightly around his aching cock.

“Touch your breasts for me, doll. Give me a show,” Cupping your breasts you do as your husband says, rolling the tips between your fingertips and tugging gently, electing a groan from Negan. You’re hyper-aware of the way your legs are spread, as the evidence of your arousal begins to dampen your upper thighs.

Watching him touch himself does odd things to your body, it heats your skin and makes you ache in places you hadn’t known existed. There was something so unorthodox and debauched about this moment you couldn’t but to embrace it, sinking further into Negan’s capable hands as they take possession of your breast. Behind closed doors, there was no shame or embarrassment. Just husband and wife engaged as one. Negan’s touch did things to you, there was no denying that. It brought you to the forefront of your mind, made you more self-aware.

“Please, touch me harder.” You wanted to feel, needed it. Regardless of the consequences.

His lip quirks, “Harder?” His right hand sends a burning slap against your left breast. Arching into the sting, you revel in the pain before he gives the same treatment to the other one. Grasping them roughly, before all together wrenching the both of you sideways.

“My sweet wife wants it rough, huh? I don’t think you know what your little, virgin pussy is asking for,” The sudden change in position makes you head spin as you find yourself looking up into Negan’s glittering eyes. The picture of patience as he waits for you to get your bearings. Leaning forward to nuzzle your neck, his nose traces an unseen pattern. Gruffly, he whispers against your heated flesh, “You have this look in your eyes, sweetheart. I’m not sure if I want to protect it or destroy it.” The intensity in his eyes lessens a fraction at his admission, but its the opposite of what you want.

“Destroy it, please.” Your lips connect in a wet embrace, moving in a suggestive rhythm as you take the lead. Trailing wet kisses along his jawline, to tentatively taste the skin of the corded muscles in his neck. “Do it, I want you to break me.”

“Put me inside you,” Your small hand reaches between your slick bodies, wrapping around his girth, before positioning him at your drenched entrance. Negan releases a string of curses as you slowly envelop him, “that’s it, baby. Nice and fucking easy, feel what I’m doing to your wet pussy?”

You answer the question with a low, drawn out moan as he becomes fully seated within you. The feeling of being stretched resonates to other parts of your body as he begins to move. Retreating slightly, before snapping his hips roughly forward, bottoming out. Sliding your legs from around his waist, he rights himself on his knees, a firm grip on your hip, as he pulls you further into his lap. The other comes to rest lightly between your breasts.

“You’re so deep, oh,” Gritting your teeth against the onslaught of pleasure, your pliable body arches to meet his brutal thrusts as the sound of his labored breathing feels the quiet room.

“That’s it, baby,” The grip on your breast tightens, as does the growing knot in your belly. “Who do you belong to?”

"Negan,” Eyes lolling back with each snap of his hips, you chant his name like a prayer.

“Louder.”

“Negan, oh god. My husband!” He delivers three harsh taps in quick succession across your abdomen, catching the underside of your breast on the last one, you gasp out, “Harder, hurt me harder.”

“Are you going to come for me, dear wife?” He grits out beneath clenched teeth.

“Yes, oh yes!” Bowing off the bed, you call out uncaring, as he reaches newly discover depths within you. “I’m so close,” The blunt head of his member rubs against the sensitive spot inside you as he changes positions, taking both legs over his right shoulder. He comments how much tighter you are from this position, low grunts falling from his lips, as his nails digger deeper into your fleshy thighs. 

“Coat my dick, babydoll.” You let out a careening wail as your inner walls clamp down around him, milking him for all he’s worth, as he continues to fuck you through your release. “Fucking cum all over your husbands fat dick.”

Falling forward, breasts cushioned again his hard chest, he releases deep within you. The dead weight of Negan’s body serves to tether you to reality, you’re not floating several feet above your own head or trailing steps behind on the outside, looking in. You revel in the realization, and as you gaze up, unseeing at the ceiling, you take your mind through different emotional states, savoring each one before they leave.

“Thank you, husband.”

Nuzzling your breast, he responds in kind, “My pleasure, dear wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I apologize for being MIA this past couple of days. College is getting tougher, but I've got a month and a half til' summer and then I can write until my little heart's content. So be patient with updates x
> 
> ps sorry for the shorter chapter but there's a method to my madness.

“Move your hips!”

Letting out a noise akin to an injured animal, minced with a low moan, you whimper, “I-I can’t.”

With a harsh tap on your left hip, he utters, once again, “Move your hips, Y/N.” Then softer, he says, “I know you can, baby.”

“I don’t think, I can…” Your words are slightly slurred as you do as he saws, regardless, pushing back on your heels so that you’re impaled once again on to his stony cock.

The alarm clock on Negan’s nightstand emits a hazy red glow, as you arch your back, pushing against his unyielding body. Coating him with your wetness. He watches, motionless, only the occasional grunt or word of encouragement falling from his lips.

**2:58 AM**

“I’m sorry,” Your arms give out, boneless, from the several orgasms you’d been subjected to only moments prior. You’d soon found out that your husband’s sexual appetite was incorrigible, so demanding. The former was alluring, but the latter, you had to acknowledge, was borderline daunting.  
 ****

“You wan’a please your husband, hmm?” Gasping your affirmative, you push back harder, using your heels as leverage. During which, the air in the room becomes heavy with a palpable tension that soon settles. Landing upon your skin, in your hair, before it lodges in your throat making you achy and weak.

“Oh, yes!” Negan grasps your elbows wrenching you roughly back onto his appendage so that your upper half is suspended in air. You’re helpless, subject to his brutal thrusts as he uses you, burrowing himself farther into your weeping slit. “Yes, I do!” 

The searing knot in your lower belly is beyond taught, stretched and teased as much as your own body had been for the last several hours. It’s almost as if you transcended onto a new plane entirely, past lust and passion. You’re practically deranged. This is something else, entirely. A stream of drool makes its way past the corner of your mouth and down your chin. 

“That’s a good girl,” He lets loose his grip on your elbows, carelessly, so your upper half collapses into the sheets. You go panting, as he lifts up onto his arches, driving against a spot inside you that sends you wailing, “there it is, baby. His words are drowned out by your own carnal screams as your inner walls begin to flutter, desperately seeking that extra friction—that extra bit of pain to push you over the edge. All along, he drives into the same place within you, pulling the knot tighter, _tighter_ —you fear what it might be when it snaps.

“Hit me!” You pant. “Touch me harder, please!” 

You’re developing a slight preference for pain.

He delivers a burning blow to the flesh of your ass and almost instantly a gush of liquid flows from your sex, as it grasps his cock in an almost vice-like grip. You climax with a guttural groan and he follows shortly after, his words embedded in low pants. “Fucking hell, Y/N. You’re my dirty, little wife aren’t you?”

He retracts from your sopping entrance, releasing you from his hold. You spare him a glance over your shoulder as you attempt to get your bearings. His abdomen is slick and shiny from your joint wetness. You resist the urge to turn your burning face away from his twinkling gaze, instead, lifting up slightly to capture his lips with your own. The effort is shy but passioned as you suckle his bottom lip, releasing it with a wet pop. Just like he’d taught you.

You’d learned so much in a span of three hours. 

The most mattering: your husband likes to be in charge. 

“Clean me off.” You shuffle positions until you’re precisely where he wants you, taking the slick, flaccid member into your wet mouth. Tasting the culmination between the two of you. 

What your mother must think of you.

To your shame, your body responds to the thought in kind, uncontrollably contracting the walls of its core so tightly that they brush against themselves. 

You have the verdict. For all the faults that Negan had, you were sure, that yours evenly matched his. Maybe that’s why you’d hardly batted an eye at the idea of him having multiple partners. Why you’d gone along so willingly to him in the first place. Should you have put up more of a fight? Probably. 

But could you admit it to yourself? Live with it? That the thought of fucking him was so immoral that it made you want it even more. That you enjoyed it, almost preferred it this way. The act of his control was something others would label improper, but you'd found it to be something else entirely.

“That’s enough,” He collapses beside you, panting with the exertion of having kept himself upright. “C’mere, babydoll.”

You hadn’t expected, not in a million years, that you’d be here. Coddled naked, next to a man—your husband—basking in the afterglow of a mutual release. 

“Sore?” His touch is tender as he massages the peaked flesh of your breasts before deciding to venture lower. You wince at the gentle intrusion but keep your legs parted so as not to obstruct his movements.

“A little.” That was an understatement, but you’d asked for it. The bruises on your thighs, your neck. It didn’t matter what kind of arrangement the two of you had. It was no longer unbalanced. Unbeknown to your own conscious mind, you were taking more from him than he ever could take from you. Besides, your eyes roam the expanse of his chest, noting the angry red lines, you weren’t the only one who’d left damage in their wake. He retracts his fingers, tasting the wetness on his fingertips.

“Why am I the only one who has to call you 'husband'?” You run your index finger along the length of his heart, softly thumbing the downy-like chest hair before circling one of his nipples. He’s so relaxed after a good fuck, easier to manipulate.

You tuck that information away for later. 

“Because you’re different, babydoll,” He closes his eyes, presumably signaling that the conversation is over, but his lips continue to move, “younger. You have this innocence…” His words are slurred and garbled with sleep, “reminds…her...” His throat clears, and its almost as if he jerks to awareness, peeling one eye open to say. “Stick with me, babydoll, and you’ll be alright.” The grip on your hip tightens, you’re not going anywhere. Try as you might.  

_He means weak_ , a small voice whispers, so low that you weren’t sure if you’d heard it.

“I’m not weak.” You whisper. The soft hairs on his leg tickle you as you burrow further into his side. You don’t think he heard you. The wrinkles and worry lines have become smoothed out of his features, leaving him with a younger appearance.

“Sleep, I’ve got you.” He breathes.

For the first time in years, you do. 

Peacefully. 

The heaviness of Negan’s palm, keeping you warm. 

Tethering you in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So its been a minute, sorry about that. Here's an extra long chapter to make up for my mistakes. 
> 
> p.s. If you've been wondering where I've been or when a story will be updated, you should totally follow my Tumblr.  
> okay, mwah x

You have decided that there is a pact between your unconscious and conscious mind.

It was made behind your back when you were unaware, wallowing in impassive emotions and drowning in racing thoughts, an unspoken agreement to let you have that fleeting moment of peace in the morning.

That blissful moment when your mind is a blank sleight. So very weightless and _gloriously_ empty, it almost seems like you’re floating in a husk. Alike to a child being birthed and dragging in that first breath of air, you are defenseless to their advances, so you leave it be. Instead, you cling to that moment for as long as you can. Before the inevitable can make itself known.

You are alive.

It’s like trying to fight the natural reaction of your body floating to the surface of a large body of water. The memories play behind your eyes like an old movie as you consider the moments of your youth spent by the pool. The sound of water in your ears and the cold seeping into your bones as you desperately try to fight the upward motion.

Only this isn’t the community pool at your local YMCA.

You’re not seven and there will be no dampened, chlorine-scented car ride home.

You are older.

A woman.

Who awakes next to a man in the morning, aching in coveted places and bruised in areas that cannot be seen with the naked eye.

You carefully extract yourself from Negan’s grip, conscious of your demanding bladder. After briefly contemplating it, you slip one of his cotton shirts over your naked frame, unable to find your nightgown in the darkened room.

Negan’s bathroom is quite lush, the theme coinciding with his bedroom, the dining room, and his office. Although, when you consider this, he doesn’t seem like the ‘lush’ type. Personality wise, you’d have thought him to be more laid back, uncaring of such amenities.

 _What is he trying to compensate for?_ You toe the rug beneath your foot, considering the thought as you empty your bladder.

The aroma of his aftershave clings to the shirt you’re adorned in, invading your pores, as you make your way to the sink.

You weren’t a virgin, but you felt like it. Weren’t you supposed to look different? You didn’t feel any different. Maybe calmer, more alert. You’d almost expected to have “whore” stamped across your forehead.

The love bites on the swell of your breast and the slight bruising around your neck would have to suffice.

There wasn’t much left to do in the bathroom and after taming your hair you consider the merits of leaving while Negan is still asleep. None of the other girls had ever mentioned the proper conduct of staying the night. Should you go? Or, return to his side?

You’re surprised to find him up and moving around the room when you return. Stopping just at the threshold, you watch the corded muscles in his back. Your husband was always moving. Whether it was his mouth, a smirk poised at the ready to issue a blinding retort. Or the quickening of his hips as he pressed urgently against your pliable body, racing towards his release. You’d never seen him so…still.

Whatever it may be, you could at least admire that this lovely creature had sunken its claws into you.

He slips on a pair of jeans, and without turning, he says, “Why is it that every woman, ever, takes forever in the damn bathroom.”

Your arms come around your midsection protectively, before you comment, “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but if a woman takes that long in the bathroom she’s climbing out the window.”

“Touché.” He beckons you over to the roomy seating area on the other side of his bed.

“Pick something.” He motions to his extensive collection of vinyl records on his shelf you’d yet to notice, before turning his attention to something on his dresser.

“What are we doing?” Weren’t you overstaying your welcome?

“Having breakfast.” Cocking a brow he waits for you to argue, but you find that there’s no point in it. You weren’t in the mood to see anyone anyway, at least you could stay in this bubble for a little while longer. “Staff came by why you were in the bathroom. They’ll be back shortly. We’re having pancakes.”

Enticed by the idea of undiscovered music, you find yourself thumbing through the records on his shelf. Billy Joel. The Beatles. Eric Clapton.

A little older for your taste, but you loved anything that could resonate with you on an emotional level.  

Your father always said you could tell a lot about a person by the things they put on their shelves. It seemed Negan loved music as much as you did.

Picking a slightly faded record, you place it gently in its designated place before dropping the needle. The soft crooning of a male penetrates the silence in the room.

_Tell me what you're feeling, I can take the pain_

You’d never heard this song before but it’d only taken the first few words to catch your attention. How was it possible? How could this unnamed man write the thoughts you could barely face. Invoke this kind of unnamed emotion within you.

_Tell me what your heart wants, such a simple thing_

_My heart is like paper, yours is like a flame_

Closing your eyes you lose yourself in the essence of his pain, softly swaying your hips to the gentle beat as your head lulls to and fro.

“Ray LaMontagne,” You're getting used to Negan’s sudden appearances as you’d learned that he could be quite handsy when he felt like it. So when he presses himself against your back, draping himself against the curves of your ass, your eyes remain shut, “ever heard of him?”

“No,” You murmur, tilting your head slightly to give him access to your neck, “but I like it.”

“I _like_ you in my clothes.” His hands travel the expanse of your tummy before settling low on your hips, grazing the hemline of his shirt that brushes the tops of your thighs, “It’s a sight I could get used to.”

The question is poised on the tip of your tongue. Last night, though hazy, you remember that he mentioned a woman. Compared you to her before slipping into the depths of his unconscious. You hadn’t paid it much thought last night, but it seemed a persistent nudge at the back of your mind now. Like you knew what was in front of you, but can’t bring yourself to actually see it. It was almost as if you had the pieces of a puzzle but couldn’t possibly fathom the picture.

So instead, a different sentence flows from your lips.

“Will you dance with me?”

“Dance?” His wandering hands still.

“Yes, I’ve always loved to dance.” Then with a little hesitance, you attempt to lighten the mood with a joke. “We are married after all. Aren’t husbands and wives meant to have a first dance?”

“So this would be our song?” Negan cocks his head motioning to the air. He still hasn’t moved yet. Turning in his embrace, you take in his face. The shutters are partly drawn behind his eyes, as he seems to wait for a catch-22. The thought saddens you. You weren’t the only one who wanted things they couldn’t have.

Things they didn’t even know they wanted.

Humming, you consider the concept of having a “song” with the man who’d taken you as leverage to hold over your ailing mother’s head.

It seemed too personal, but not necessarily wrong.

“What song is this?”

“Such A Simple Thing.”

You pause briefly to let the lyrics sink in. He watches you the entire time, his sharp gaze practically weighing you down.

_Can’t you see how much you hurt me, its like I wasn’t there_

_I can't make you see, if you don't by now_

“Fitting, isn’t it?” He acknowledges the unspoken resentment in your eyes.

“Very.” You say after a beat. “Let me start it over.”

Placing the needle at the outmost portion of the record, the room is once again filled with the soft croons of a broken man.

“Put your hands on my waist like this,” Your small hand is practically dwarfed by his. How distinct the two of you look beside one another. His knuckles are bruised and scabbed over from prior moments of emotional outbursts. Bringing his other palm around your waist, his fingers which barely graze the top of your ass cause the familiar heat from the night before to blossom between the apex of your thighs.

You can barely retain the shiver. A residual effect.

“Oh, hush.” You softly chide him. The wolfish smile never fades as you begin to sway.

"Do you dance? The hand that clasps yours, dips beneath the neckline of your shirt, pulling the opal necklace from its hiding place.

“I did, before. But I don’t think that really counts.” But then again, there were many things that fit into that category. Did that mean they were simply obsolete now? And if so, what did that leave left of you?

He catches you off guard, twirling you in a circle so that you emit a peel of laughter.

He looks just as surprised as you do.

After a moment he does it again, spinning you so that you feel weightless. Dropping your head back and closing your eyes, wisps of hair escape from its constraint atop your head as he holds you. Tightly, so as not to leave a space between your quivering chests as you begin to sway in the streams of light that peak in from behind the curtains.

_Tell me what your heart wants, such a simple thing_

“Babydoll,” You look up from where you rest your head on his chest. Noting the pain that swims just below the surface of his irises, “you have this—”

A soft knock at the door causes his words to falter. The swaying of your bodies still as you both cock your head to look at the door. Reality attempting to penetrate your bubble.

“I feel like Clapton today.” He tosses over his shoulder as he goes to get the door. Finding the request to be somewhat of an exhilarating challenge, you peruse the records, picking ‘From The Cradle’ on the lowest shelf.

The sound of dishes breaking causes you to jerk upward and face the culprit.

Your mother gazes at you with wide eyes and you watch with bated breath as her eyes roam the exposed flesh of your thighs that Negan’s shirt doesn’t cover, before finally turning to the unmade bed. Choosing the cowardly way out of this uncomfortable situation, you turn and busy yourself with changing the vinyl until you know that they’ve left.

The smell of food has the opposite effect that it usually does, twisting your stomach in a tight knot.

 _Holding you, you holding me, everyone could see we were in ecstasy._ Clapton begins to sing.

"Hey, look at me.” When you refuse to do so he grasps your chin in a tight grip, jerking your face towards his, “Ready to eat?”

“Yes.” 

His grip becomes almost painful, and you quickly realize your mistake. “Yes, husband.”

You find yourself several moments later, picking at the pancakes on your plate as you consider what your mother must think of you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Negan rakes his hands through your hair before tugging at the hair on the crown of your head. In a small act of rebellion, you’d taken a seat on the floor instead of beside Negan on the couch. The spread of breakfast items on the coffee table does nothing but remind you of your mother. Had she known this was what she’d be walking into?

“Nothing,” It’s _not_ nothing. The tears welling in your eyes attest to that.

Releasing the handful of your hair in his palm, your head falls back limply against the couch seat. You're agitated and antsy. In your head you imagine running out the doors of Negan’s room, leaving behind his questioning eyes and the unmade bed.

Instead, you find yourself covering your tracks.

"My mother, I guess.” With a shrug, you wave away his concerns instead turning on your side so that he can see your tear-free eyes. You'd simply blinked the tears away. “Can I ask you something?”

The sound of Clapton drones on in the background as you wait for him to finish the several bites on his plate. You hum softly watching as he sets his fork down, hoisting you into his lap by your armpits.

“Take three bites and then we’ll talk,” He leans forward stabbing a piece of fluffy cake with your fork, lifting it to your mouth.

When you’ve taken the appropriate amount of bites, you swallow before asking, “Can you tell me a story?”

“A story?” He echoes.

“A story...or a memory,” Swallowing around another bite that he feeds you, you continue, “they’ve just always made me feel better.”

“A story, hmm?” You think for a moment that he won’t carry through with your request, it’d been wishful thinking on your part. Kaleb used to tell you stories when you were upset, but he was nowhere to be seen now.

“There once was a girl who could stoke a fire in a man's heart with a single glance,” You’re not sure if he’s talking about you or someone else. But he grips you tightly to his chest and you can’t help but relax against him, letting the vibrations in his voice resonate through your body, “she was beauty personified, but not the way you would goddamn think.” He chuckles to himself and you’re left wondering what exactly he’s telling. A story or a memory?

“What do you mean?” You finally ask. He’s gone quiet and you might be mistaken but there’s a shimmer in his eyes. Maybe it’s the reflection of the light?

Seated sideways in his lap, you listen to his heartbeat as he continues to spin an image of a woman cloaked in her confidence as equally as in her insecurities. Eventually, his tale becomes more fantasy then non-fiction as he tells you how she’d slain a dragon with her bare hands and climbed to the tallest point in the world just to put her life into perspective. It’s unique and you enjoy watching the way his eyes light up, the possessive hand around your waist as he uses the other to illustrate a point.

Finally, his story ends, the nameless women left in a room of flowers to die by her own volition. “Feel better?” He inquires.

“Much.” You answer, truly touched that he’d made an effort. “Thank you. Whoever she is…she sounds amazing.”

You’re unsure if he’d spoken but you could have sworn he agrees with you.

“C’mon, babydoll. Let's go.” As gradually as the moment had appeared, it exits in a cloud of ash and smoke. “As much as I’d love to have that sweet ass cradled against my junk all morning, I’m a busy man and I do have people I need to see.”

He motions for you to stand, waltzing to his dresser and pulling out a pair of sweatpants for you to wear.

“Where are we going?”

“Dear wife, we’re gonna see a man about a bruise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final's week has descended. sorry in advance for the slow updates. x

“It’ll be easier with this, Y/N.” Amber softly nudges you with her elbow and you look down at her offering. A mini flask. “Just take a sip.”

A refusal is poised at the tip of your tongue, you can’t imagine holding anything down at this moment. 

Kaleb and Fat Joey hold a struggling Carson in place on a rickety chair as Negan takes his time, whistling a familiar tune as he heats an old-fashioned, cast iron. When it turns a wicked shade of orange, taking on an almost bluish hue, he once again laments to the crowd of goading men, “What d’yah think Doc, _goddamn_ hot enough?”

“Thank you,” Accepting the flask, you down the entirety of its contents, wiping your lips daintily as you pass it back to her. 

The liquor burns your throat, and you’re thankful for the distraction as the discomfort lingers. 

The fleeting looks of concern that Kaleb throws in your direction repeatedly pierce your indifferent facade, until there’s nothing left of you but a shivering little girl. 

How had this morning been so perfect and now—this. _This_ was hell, pure hell. 

You could care less about what was going to happen to Carson, from just a brief discussion with the other wives you’d come to the general consensus that he was a sleazeball. But did you really have to be here? A sick sideshow for the general population to ogle—or were you the main attraction? A group of whispering women catches your eye, and Amber notices them too, giving the middle finger before once again slipping on her mask of indifference. 

They wouldn’t see it like you do. They wouldn’t know that this was for the general wellbeing of the women at the factory. They’d see it as you ratting out one of _them_. 

Had your mother gotten to them yet? Maybe they already knew what you’d been up to last night. Laying on your back like a whore. 

The thought made you want to crawl back to your room and underneath your covers. But you couldn’t, you were here, wrapped in Annabella’s embrace as she held a hand around your waist like an anchor. To an extent, the comfort was purely physical, borderline detached. Her sharp eyes flicker from Negan then done to a petrified Carson. Almost as a reflex, she tugs you tighter against her side when Negan’s gaze rests on you for a moment.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Negan begins, leaving the iron in the cremation chamber as he steps toward the inhabitants of the factory, “we are gathered here today because this _shitbag_ broke one of my golden rules.”

Carson’s struggles become renewed, “No, Negan! I swear, she didn’t—”

“Hold on.” The tension settles on your skin. It’s almost fascinating to watch the way your husband—with just a small utterance—can command a room. “Are you calling my wife a goddamn liar?”

Carson lets out a pained gasp and it’s your brother, you note, who has a tight grip on his esophagus, cutting off his air supply. 

“Why don’t we get a second opinion, Doc?” He doesn’t wait for him to respond, instead, turning his puncturing gaze to your trembling frame. 

Wordlessly, he beckons you forward. 

“Negan, you can’t! She’ll—” Annabella begins, her protest is cut short by a look so fierce she physically flinches. 

“This is all my fault.” She mumbles quietly to herself, but you catch it before she releases you with a resigned sigh. “Just go, Y/N.”

You’re not weak, you assure yourself, almost brutally. Straightening your spine, you move forward with only minute hesitation, not wanting to stretch this moment any longer then it need be. The clicking of your heels on metal flooring is the only sound that penetrates the silence, even Carson has stopped squirming for the time being. Instead, gazing at you pleadingly until you can’t stand it and you’re forced to look away. 

“There she is, my beautiful wife.” Removing the protective glove, Negan cups your hip, pulling you further into his embrace until you’re standing in between him and Carson. 

“Listen here, baby,” The tenuous purr of his voice is like a drug, and much to your embarrassment, you shiver under his ministrations. His fingers draw an unknown picture on your hip as the other cups the back of your head keeping your gaze interlocked with his, “I want you to answer a couple of questions for me. Think you can do that?”

“Yes, husband.” You hate yourself for the salacious thoughts that infiltrate your mind when he slowly licks his bottom lip, dampening the pink skin.

“Is the person who gave you that bruise, in this room?”

“Yes.” The word comes easily enough. 

“Can you point to him, baby?”

You raise a finger, turning in his embrace. 

“My final question, beautiful.” Negan leans forward so that the warmth of his breath tickles your ear, close enough to taste the syrup on his breath. Quirking your head in an inquisition, your eyes remain on Carson’s. So full of fear. So helpless. It’s a nice change of pace—to see that look in someone else’s eyes. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“Honor?” Your words, quite literally, sound like an echo as you reiterate his question. “Why—?”

“Who are you?”

“Negan.” He must’ve been talking to Fat Joey because he answers on command.

“…and who the hell are you?”

“Negan,” Kaleb answers next, without an ounce of trepidation. Your eyes briefly meet and he nods, turning back to Carson. 

“You don’t get it yet. Do you, baby?” His eyes contrast his sweet words as they gradually harden, the act akin to molten lava oozing from an active volcano. You wonder who will erupt first. Him or you? “They’re all me—but you—you belong to _me_. So either you get some closure, because like I told you, no _one_ was ever supposed to hurt you.” He motions to Carson. “Or I do it, and you walk away with the weight of the goddamn world on your shoulders.”

He holds out the protective glove waiting for you to make a decision. 

Its never hurt this much. The eyes of everyone in the factory weigh down on you as your brother softly urges you to take it.

Take it or he will.

Will he also take the consequences that come with it? Lay on his back and take _it_.

Reaching for the mitten, you slip it on. All the while, frantically extracting yourself from your own body as a last-ditch effort to preserve what’s left of your sanity. 

You’ve killed before. But this was something entirely different. Cruel retribution. You’d never done that. 

Approaching Dwight by the fire, he once again reaches for the iron with a set of tongs, placing it in your hand as he gives you a small grin. 

“If he hadn’t touched you, we wouldn’t be here.” He softly assures you. “He needs to pay.”

Turning carefully with the iron now clasped tightly in your palm, you make your way back to the good doctor. Was it your imagination, or maybe the liquor? But the small iron seems almost weightless. You seem weightless. Almost as if the ceiling and the roof could fall away at any moment, taking you with it. 

“You don’t have to do this.” Fat Joey’s eyes seem to look through you, his expression a garbled mixture of concern and pity. 

“Yes.” Cradling the left side of Carson’s face, in an almost loving embrace. Poor bastard. “I do.”

There’s something, almost _intoxicating_ about hurting someone. You can’t look away as you sink into this groove in your mind. A place you’ll never fully return from. Although, it isn’t all that bad. Your sight is sharper and your hearing intensifies, detecting Negan’s heavy breathing only several feet away. You’ve never been this aware, it’s eerie. As if with one look you cut through the bullshit and see straight to a person’s core.

Hurting someone is easy.

There’s a pregnant pause before the pain registers with him, he lets out a guttural scream as loud as your pounding heart. The struggling begins. His face slips from your grasp and you lose balance in your heels, dropping the iron for a moment. 

From somewhere behind you, Negan demands, “Hold him still.” 

Dealing with the consequences of that hurt is harder. 

The smell of burning flesh seeps into the air, and with a sick fascination, you watch the skin of his face take on the resemblance of melted cheese when you retract your arm. Carson goes limp from the pain, slumping forward in the chair so that the room is once again cloaked in an echoing silence.

The whole ordeal had hardly taken more than a few seconds. 

Dropping the iron with a low thud, the sound of applause fills the air. 

“That was fucking beautiful, sweetheart.” Removing the glove carefully and in a delicate manner, you place it in Carson’s lap.

Your brother says something but it hardly reaches your ears. The world seems to make a sharp turn, pushing things into a completely different perspective. It’s too much. These heels are too much. This dress is too much. His presence. 

Too. 

Much.

“I had to do it.” Are you telling him or yourself? 

“He broke the rules, babydoll.” You let him turn you, looking into his inquiring gaze. He studies your tense frame, waiting for the moment that you’ll detonate. He’s almost expecting it, but once again you take him by surprise when you raise up to press a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“I _fucking_ hate you.” The blow you deliver to his face isn’t the worse he’s had. The pain doesn’t even register. It’s the suddenness of it that mostly catches him off guard, turning his head sharply to the right as he catches a fleeting glance of your back as you run. 

You leave absolute chaos in your wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry an update for this story has taken so long. Truthfully, I’m overwhelmed by the response to this fic and writer’s insecurity reared its ugly head. Anyway, enjoy x

The defining roar of Negan’s cry carries down the vast hallway, ricocheting off the metal walls. You knew that you’d left him behind you but the sound carries, leaving you disoriented. For a moment, you wonder if you’re running the wrong way. That he’ll bound around a corner before you can reach your room and murder you. 

You had regretted it as soon as you’d seen the look on his face. You knew it would hurt him. Not your actions, they could never hold a candle to the burning building that words could elicit. You understood now. 

Understood everything. 

The funny thing about reality is that it’s _true_. _Brutally_ so.

The very thought of it could drive a man insane. We as humans weren’t meant to see the underlying truth. Too painful. We were meant to live on the topical layer. To swallow the lies with a glass of wine and close our eyes when it got too much.

But what do you do when someone takes away that ability?

It’s like you’d broken through to another dimension. You weren’t sure if you could live in a world of recognizable truths.

Your mother hated you.

You were a whore.

You had liked hurting Carson.

You could never hate Negan.

“Fuck!” Choking on a garbled scream, the feeling of drowning overtakes you. You’re suffocating in your own skin! The heels go first. Ditching them in the stairwell, you take more than one step until you’re basically homeward bound. 

**BANG!**

The sound of a stairwell door meeting the metal wall temporarily distorts your point of being. Was that above or below you? 

“Y/N! Get your ass back here.” The anger seeping from his words climb the walls and bound multiple stairs at a time as his footsteps outpace yours. In a desperate attempt to gain an advantage, you tug at the zipper of your constricted dress, hiking it midthigh as you open the door to your designated floor. It’s only a right turn and a long stretch of a hallway.

“Run…” 

The breath of his words hit your neck as your hand barely brushes the handle of the door.

“…but it’ll be worse when I catch you…” 

In the past several days you’d learned a lot about what your husband likes. There is this unrelenting desire inside him to _push_. You’d seen it with Joey. It was like Negan had the master plan of other's insecurities. He just knew how to take you just past the brink and leave you dangling. 

Your shoulders absorb a majority of the blow as you suddenly find yourself thrust up against a neighboring wall. Still, the curve of your cranium connects with the wall leaving you temporarily disoriented. Rough hands take possession of your upper thighs, his chest bears down on you like a large weight so that you’re stuck between two hard surfaces.

Taking possession of your opal necklace, he twists it tight around your neck as he says, “You’ve got some fucking nerve.” 

“I didn’t mean it,” You whimper, “not really.”

He retreats for a moment, allowing you to draw small breaths but the pressure around your neck persists. He’s aroused, you realize. The pupils of his eyes aflame and dilated as his breathing matches the bated tempo of your breath. He wants you to fight back. You want to fight back.

After finding something in your expression he’d been looking for, he lessens all his grips. “But you said it.” He finally vocalizes, stooping down to hook his fingers in the sides of your underwear, dragging them down in a manner akin to a cooling fire.

It’s all you need. 

It’s only slightly satisfying when you rake your nails across the side of his face, the scratches instantly ooze small droplets of blood. He recoils and you obtain an opening to escape, in your haste kicking your panties off as you dash out of the stairwell and down the hallway.

“Umph!” You both let out mutual grunts as you go barreling to the ground. He’d tackled you but taking the brunt of the blow. The two of you are a mass of limbs as he struggles to straddle your stomach. “Please, please!” You don’t know what you’re asking for. 

“Spread your legs!” The cool air of the factory lashes harshly against the damp folds of your sex as he fondles you for a moment. You buck up into his grip. You’re at the mercy of his hands and it’s there, that it becomes different. Another truth. You love how he takes possession of your body. 

Something snaps inside of you. Bowing off the floor with such strength that he budges several inches. The anger fades in his eyes, giving way to resentment before ultimately settling on something else. You’re tearing at his shirt. A ripping sound fills the hallway. His shirts gone and your dress is pushed even higher until your ass is completely bared to the hallway. He begins rubbing your clit in firm circles that make your hips buck and the knot begin to tighten. 

“Ask me.” His mouth nears your ear as he begins to finger you, punctuating the demand with a flick of your clit. “Ask me to put my fat cock inside your dripping hole...because you want it.”

“Please, husband." You beg him earnestly as his fingers quicken and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head. "I need you to fuck me.”

He watches you through hooded eyes. “Tell me you’ll be my good girl.” 

“I’m your good girl.”  He loosens his grip, only for a second but its enough. 

You knee him in the groin. Not to hurt him, just enough to take him by surprise. He grunts loudly, reeling back, yet grasps for your ankle as you take off running. It causes you to stumble. But you gain momentum around the corner until your only moments away from your door. You twist the doorknob, slower than you usually would, the mechanisms turning in the door are almost as loud as your racing heart. There’s a slight smirk on your face when he catches you by the back of your dress, spinning you so that you face him with the momentum. 

“Take me out.”

“Yes, husband.” Your moan is frantic as you lunge forward for the button of his jeans. Yanking them past his hips without abandon as the heat of his erect cock sears heat into the palm of your hand.

He steps forward, hoisting you waist-high so that you wrap your arms around his hips. Anyone could see you like this. Yearning and mewling for your husband’s cock as he spreads your legs wider, pressing forward. He’s going to fuck you against your bedroom door. 

He fills you to the hilt in one smooth, slow thrust. It gives you the chance to feel every aching inch of his length.

“More,” You beg, the grip on your hips tighten as he stills, beckoning you to open your eyes and chance a look into his heated stare. There is an emotion that blazes in his eyes, so vivid and bright with potential. But you see there’s also frustration, longing, and a mixture of some that you can never hope to untangle. “No matter what I say, I’m always going to want more.”

Your eyes threaten to roll back into your head as his hips retract, snapping forward to nudge the deepest corners of your inner walls. He’s sparking a fire within you, fanning it from the inside out. 

He folds in on you, taking brutal possession of your lips as your groins mash together deliciously. “You belong to me. Next time you try some bullshit like that in front of the whole goddamn factory, I’ll take out my cock and bring you to your knees. Then you'll really be giving a show, huh?”

“Yes, husband.” You take as equally as he does, grabbing at his shoulders to stabilize yourself and tightening your legs to pull him deeper. Nails. Your nails embed themselves in his skin, so deep. 

The sound of a door slamming somewhere far off spurs your coupling into your room. Quickly maneuvering the door open, he walks through and kicks the door shut, sweeping the items off your bed in one swoop. The sound of objects hitting your carpeted floor fills the room, but you pay them no mind as he throws you onto the bed and follows. 

You’re not sure how long it lasts but he’s there sucking, groping and thrusting into your pliable body as you repeatedly come together.

He finally ends his tirade and hovers over your body, pinning your arms to the bed. You’re bound and helpless, no other option but to look up into his intense gaze.

“Don’t give me that look.” He finally says after a moment. 

 Blinking up owlishly, you wonder, “Look?” 

“Like you understand,” Pressing a lingering kiss to the new abrasion on your neck, he maintains a path south. Tasting the skin between your breast, nipping at the sensitive skin.

“I think I’m beginning to.” You utter, breathless as he envelopes the turgid skin of your nipple. 

“You’re getting under my skin, Y/N.” He starts a slow pace with his hips, undulating against your core as he presses you closer. You’re unsure of this. He’s never been this tender with you. It almost seems like a trap. Still, you respond in kind, tightening your hips around his waist as the knot in your stomach begins to tighten. 

“Would you father I fall at your feet like Rachel?” You’re not joking. Maybe it would be easier to be as single-minded as her. 

“At least she listens,” He stills atop you, suddenly furrowing his brows. Like he’s just woken from a trance, "and follows the rules..." 

“But then I’d be mindlessly pining after a man who rotates his woman like a wealthy woman changes purses. She hurts, Negan. And that little display today, you hurt me too! You didn’t have to make me do that,” You throw at him halfheartedly, making a fussy struggle in his arms until he releases your wrists. The severed cord of the knot in your belly sways loosely in a nonexistent breeze as he leaves his perch atop you to hastily shuck on his clothes, “make me hurt Carson like that. That was only for you!” Another truth.

It hurts him. Like it hurts you.

“Nobody lays a finger on my goddamn property and you still don't get that, do you? But maybe that’s my fault...I haven't properly demonstrated to you what that fucking means.” He grips your leg, pulling the appendage so that you come to rest at the edge of the bed between his legs.

“I am _not_ your property.” Lie. You both know it's a lie.

“Keep telling yourself that, doll.” A cold smile envelops his features. “I’m putting Kaleb at the satellite outpost for a couple of months, maybe you’ll think twice the next time you pull that shit.” 

Your mouth drops agape. “You can’t do that!” He’s all you have.

Without another word, he leaves the room, shutting the door with a soft click. His silence hurts the most. He couldn’t take away Kaleb, you hadn’t been away from your brother in years. He’d been by your side through it all. It was almost disorienting to think about. Like your balance was off. Collapsing breathlessly onto the floor, your foot hits something. 

The wine bottle you'd requested Joey to take back to your room the other night. 

That seemed so long ago now. Pulling your sheets around your naked body, you just sit. Marinating in your consequences. 

You don’t know how long you just sit there, but eventually, a small tentative knock comes from the other side of your door. Fat Joey opens the door a moment later to peak his head through. 

“Oh, uh, sorry.” He glances away when he notices your state of undress. “I just wanted to make sure you were—“

“Get. **_OUT_**!” With a strangled cry, you launch the closest item in your reach at his head. Your portable CD player goes flailing across the room and he shuts the door to avoid it. 

“Oh, shit!” Wiping some of the tears from your eyes you put on the headphones and press the button to see if it’s still working. Kaleb and Negan had found it for you. You loved it so much already. “No! Please work.” How many things would you ruin today?

**I’m not sure why I’m doing this—**

Pressing pause, you eject the disk as you consider where you'd gotten the CD. It comes to you eventually, a pink CD case you'd found on the parlor's shelves. It kind of felt weird, listening to the sound of a person that was probably long gone. Still, you press play. Your curiosity is piqued.  

**My mother seems to think I need a hobby. I’m sure she thought that I’d go out and feed the homeless. Maybe cure cancer, something practical. But we both know we’re anything but practical. I have something else in mind. Playlists! Why, you ask? I, Eliza May, feel that there are moments in our life that simply cannot be touched by words. We need bass and rhythm, you know? Feeling sad? I’ve got a song for that! Feeling blah? Eliza, I will fix you. You’re probably playing this CD in your car. Am I right? I’m probably right, I’m you.**

**You’re probably driving around aimlessly because you’re sad and you don’t know why… Yada yada. So just, have a little faith, yeah? We’re always reaching for the next song, the one that can explain that feeling inside us. So this time, let me pick them for you.**

**Eliza, just listen.**

With a sob poised at the tip of your tongue, and a heavy feeling bearing over your head like a crashing wave, you do.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote ahead! Can I have a small round of applause, please? The next two chapters should be up so soon. I swear! x

You’d gone into some sort of self-induced bout of isolation. 

You’d never had the luxury of self-pity before, but now you wear it like a wealthy woman adorns herself in a luxurious coat. You stay in bed all day, dressed in nothing more than a pair of panties and your robe. You don’t bother to look outside but the constant rain pattering on your window alerts you to the changing of the seasons. The dreariness matches your mood. 

Meals had been delivered to your door without actually telling the staff to do so. 

You don’t want to think about who sent them.

Annabella had knocked on your door, softly requesting for you to open up. You’d begged for her to go away. 

Amber had been next, attempting to coax you out of your cave with the promise of an exciting excursion beyond the factory’s walls. David had been asking about you. 

When it's clear that you’re unwilling to face them, they leave you to your own devices and during your next serviced meal you open the door to a care basket. It’s filled with books and CDs, as well as a bottle of red wine and some bubble bath. It's easy to ascertain which wife had sent each item. 

On the third night of successfully avoiding the masses, you get restless and start feeling what you’ll admit to yourself later is slight resentment. Why is it that Negan had such a hold on you, even when he wasn’t in direct contact? You hadn’t seen him in days but that didn’t mean that his actions didn’t bear down on you like a crashing tide. On that thought, you decide a little fresh air is in order. 

After enough digging in your dresser, you find a pair of slightly faded black leggings to wear. And after a moment of hesitation, you slip Negan’s oversized shirt over your head from several days before, finishing your lackluster ensemble with a knitted burnt orange cardigan and battered tennis shoes. 

You almost felt like your old self, kind of. 

You’re not sure where you should go, not in the mood to socialize with the other wives and not in the mood to seek out your mother. She’d probably already connected the dots and figured it was your fault that Kaleb was gone. It _was_ your fault. If only you hadn’t been so hasty with your feelings. 

But it seemed like all you could do since you arrived at The Sanctuary was _feel_. 

You ponder this doctrine as you wander the halls of the factory. There is no particular rhyme or reason for how your feet carry you as far as you end up. You walk upon the metal pavement until it disappears beneath your weary feet, giving way to a concrete flooring. Your on what must be the lowest level of the factory, you realize. The damp, yet cold air notifying you of your surroundings. Pulling your sweater tighter around your quivering frame, the sound of low muttering and music catches your attention just when you’re about to head back from the direction that you’d come from.

Curiosity piqued, you round a corner and discover what looks oddly like the outside of a makeshift nightclub. 

Two hulking men stand in front of a set of double doors that bare the words **“The Basement Bar”** in makeshift lettering. A line of men and women hug the wall tightly in a long line that wraps around a different corner and carries on longer then you can make out in the poorly lit hallway. None of the other wives had ever mentioned a bar in the factory. Did they even know?

The urge to rebel carries you past curious eyes and disgruntled women who mumble accusations of privilege. When you look at them, they glance away. You barely pause at the door, the men standing guard give you a polite greeting before lifting the faded rope. They even hold the door for you as a wall of loud music hits you, quite literally, in the face. Somewhere a stereo blares music at its highest capacity. 

There’s a sea of gyrating bodies that all writhe to the music, others are seated at tables and some are crowded around pool tables and darts. Your eyes are wide as saucers as you stand in the middle of the dance floor taking it all in. That is before a warm hand clasps you on the shoulder. 

“Hey, thought I saw you.” Dwight leans in when your nose scrunches up in confusion and repeats himself a little louder. “What are you doing down here?”

You give a dainty shrug in response, still captivated by the moving masses before you. 

He motions for you to follow him, but you hesitate, saying, “I thought you said, you needed to keep your distance from me?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart. Let’s get you a drink.”

You let him lead you forward despite the uncertainty in your head as the two of you make your way to two empty stools at a long bar.

“Wow,” You breathe, staring up at the rows of liquor bottles that glisten in the dim fluorescents. 

“Hey, Y/N.” The stool on your right creaks as the person next to you swivels to greet you. “How’ve you been?”

Giving Fat Joey a soft smile of reassurance you turn to the bartender and order a glass of whiskey. 

You’re speaking to no one in particular when you ask, “So what is this place?” 

“A free market, in so many words,” Dwight answers, he throws back a glass of amber colored liquid before continuing, “this is a way for everyone to make money. You see, by day, the people with _actual_ talent make their wages. But the others who don’t have much to offer, well…” He motions to a scantily clad girl in the lap of a handsy, inebriated older male.

Your eyes narrow in conflict, “That’s so…”

“Profitable.” Dwight finishes, despite the fact that there was another word weighing on the tip of your tongue. He slings an arm around your shoulder. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll tell you how everything is and ought not to be.” 

Funny, you’d had that particular sentiment dangled in front of you a lot lately. 

Several hours later you’re amid a heated debate on the motives of marriage.

“I think it was always meant to be a beautiful union between two people.” Joey pipes in. His words unlike your own are unwavering. "It can still be."

Waving your arms wildly in the air, almost as if to get the teacher’s attention, you beg, squirming in your seat, “Pick me! I know about marriage! I’m married! I mean, r _eluctantly,_ but it still counts!”

“Alright,” Dwight’s glassy eyes twinkle over the rim of his cup, “let the expert speak, Joe.”

You straighten in your seat, setting your glass of red wine down for a moment. It sloshes, spilling some of its contents. You hardly notice. “Marriage, _Joe_ , is not about two people. It’s about _power_. There is _no_ union...or at least there isn’t anymore...it’s a way for both people to get what they want.”

“But are you getting what you want?” His innocent question catches you off guard.

Before you can answer him, Dwight interjects, “Of course she is. She has it better than most females. She _could_ be a whore.” He points out. 

You don’t know why you find his words so funny. 

“I am a whore.” You say proudly.

Dwight raises his glass, “To the whore.” Now your giggling is full of hysteria, you double over in laughter, attempting to take a mock bow. 

“Thank you, thank you.” You cheer.

“You’re not a whore, Y/N.” Joey murmurs quietly. "You're just doing the best you can. You're not giving yourself enough credit."

“I am,” You insist, “and it’s okay. I kind of like it, you know.”

“Ther are worst things in life than being a whore, besides it’s a social construct.” Dwight persists, his voice steadily rising over the music in the bar. “It’s whether or not you can accept what you are and _own_ it. Once you embrace something, it no longer has the power to hurt you.” His words sort of make sense but they're slightly warbled so you have to think hard about what he says. 

He passes you another small glass of liquid that you have to force yourself to choke down. It burns, but once you get past the taste that vaguely resembles nail polish remover, you quite like the residual feeling. 

“Marriage is about love.” Joey quietly says after a moment. 

“Fuck love!” You and Dwight yell, almost on cue. It’s absolutely hilarious and you almost go sailing off your chair if it weren't for Joey’s grip on your shoulder as another bout of laughter consumes you. 

“Let me tell you what love does to a person who still believes in it,” Dwight says. “It makes you _pine_ after your ex-wife and it destroys you from the inside out. It’s better to not fucking feel anything.” You can’t help but agree thinking of Rachel and how hopelessly in love she is with Negan. 

Joey becomes suddenly restless, gazing up at the large clock mounted on the bar wall. You weren’t sure how long you’d been here but the music had yet to fade. If anything, the bar looks more packed than when you’d first arrived. “I should probably go, it’s getting late and I have to relieve Kaleb of his shift.” 

Your ears quirk and something cold feels as if it’s been pumped into your bloodstream. 

“Kaleb?” You mumble. 

He gives you a strange look, “Yeah.”

“I thought he was at the… satellite post place.” You ramble. “Negan—my husband—he said…”

 _He lied_ , a small voice whispers. But why would he do that? How could he make you feel like you’d lost everything when it'd been here this entire time? “I have to be somewhere. It’s important.” You find yourself vaguely saying. 

“Aw, come on,” Dwight slings an arm over your shoulder, you shrug it off, “stay for another drink.”

Before you leave, you turn to Joey with the sweetest smile you can muster. His reaction is predictable and instantaneous, leaning forward in the crowded bar to hear your slightly slurred words. 

“I need several favors.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told you! x

“Are you sure that you want to be here?” Joey demands, for what seems like the umpteenth time. “I could take you back to your room, instead. Maybe you should wait to talk to Negan.” You’d explained to Joey, despite the initial judgment you’d made several seconds prior regarding not say anything, about what had transpired before he’d found you on your bedroom floor the other day. 

“I need to know why he lied to me.” You stress the last two words. 

He’s quiet for a moment as you both stand at the beginning of the long stretch of hallway that leads into Negan’s territory. “Everyone has their reason for keeping secrets, Y/N.”

You give him a dreamy smile, patting him on the cheek as you say, “You’re so wise. Like my voice of reason. I’m not sure where mine went but you’re smart. I wish I could listen to you, too…”

With a resigned sigh that doesn’t quite reach your ears, he steps back from your limp grip, “You said a pink CD case, right?”

“Yep,” Nodding your head you try to remember what else you’d asked for, “Oh! A bottle of Moscato, please.”

He looks on at you weary. “Do you have to drink?”

Shrugging, because that seems like the best response to anything lately. Indifferent, yet somehow definitive, you stumble down the hallway leaving Joey to do whatever Joey’s do. 

It doesn’t take long to reach Negan’s office, the hallway is partially lit by the small stream of light that escapes from his partially opened office door.

“You can’t keep asking me to do this, Negan.” Annabella’s voice cuts through the quiet of the hallway, and you have a strong urge to call out to her to say hello. You barely resist.

The sound of heavy papers slamming unexpectedly make you jump and stumble, you grab the wall for support, leaning in closer to listen. You wish your mouth would breathe a little bit more quietly, it’s making it hard to listen. You also want bread, so there’s that. 

“I’ve asked you to do nothing!” His voice is hushed but holds a loud emotion that makes you quiver. 

“You’ve made me sit back and watch—wife after goddamn wife—stumble at your feet. Pining for your heart until they realize there’s nothing left to even possess.” She spits. 

“You don’t seem to mind. I’ve kept you clothed and fed, haven’t I?”

“That’s not fair and you know it!” Her voice breaks. “I have told you to make me a Savior but you’ve refused!”

“You’re not risking your life—”

“It’s my life, Negan! I am tired of you running it. You owe me nothing.” She begs. Their voices lower for a moment and you shuffle closer to hear. 

“Bella,” His voice lowers and reveals such an intimate tone, you’re almost sure that it isn’t him speaking. “I know that Lucil—” 

“You know nothing of what she’d want because she’s **fucking** dead!” She cries.

It happens in slow motion. Tripping on your shoelaces, you fall forward, barely catching yourself on the doorknob.

“Y/N! Have you been drinking, hun?” Annabella sniffs, rushing to your aid. She helps you up and you notice how upset she looks. You want to ask her what’s wrong. Instead, you catch Negan’s eye over her shoulder. He saunters forward gripping your elbow so that you’re in his grasp, ripped from Annabella’s.

“I’ll take her to bed,” She insists, reaching for you.

At the same time you begin to protest, Negan’s words cut both you and her off. “I’ve got her.”

Annabella’s lips pucker in protest and for a moment they stare at each other, battling a silent war before her brown eyes water. You’ve never seen her like this. Her makeup is smeared and she looks smaller, though she’s much taller than you. 

“You’re going to ruin her!” Her loud outburst seems to take even her off guard. “Just like...you ruined...Margarett.” She finishes much quieter. Whether he winces from her words or the loud slamming of the door, you’re unsure. It hits the frame with such pent-up momentum that it bounces back against the hinges, remaining slightly ajar. 

“Who’s Margarett?” Your legs start to waver so you sink onto the closest surface. His plush leather couch. The cool material cools your overheated face and you press it closer, watching as he watches you. He’s always watching you.  

He returns your question with one of his own.“Where’s your dress?”

“Dirty. All of them.” He doesn’t look like he believes you. But you can tell something has him rattled. Oh well! What’s one moment of discomfort compared to a lifetime of numbness? “I came here for something,” You ponder out loud.

He raises his eyebrow, almost as if to say, ‘no shit’. Sitting up, your head spins. “Oh! I remember now! You lied to me.” You declare loudly. Too loudly. Your head vibrates. Right then, you promise yourself you won’t speak louder than a murmur from now on. 

“Gonna have to be more specific, babydoll. I lie a lot.” You bat his wandering hands away as he tugs at you t-shirt in an inquiry. “Yes, this is your shirt! I kept it because I like how you smell and not everyone likes to sashay around is an LBD.”

He studies your frame closely, having sunken down next to you on the plush couch. Had he always been this tall? His legs seem to go on for miles. “Done throwing a tantrum, yet?”

“I was not throwing a tantrum.” You huff. “Are you done lying yet? Why did you tell me Kaleb left? I was so hurt by that…I could barely get out of bed.” You quietly admit.

Without saying anything, he tugs you forward by that damn opal necklace until you’re straddling his lap. The hardening appendage between your legs shifts your mindset for a moment as you suddenly realize how horny you are. 

Less talking, more fucking. 

You help him shed your sweater and together you lift his shirt to reveal your bare torso. 

“Kaleb?” You ask breathlessly.

“Has been here this whole time,” He answers, maneuvering you beneath his lithe body on the spacious couch. With one hand, he tugs his shirt over his head and your hands are there instantly, exploring the newly revealed territory. You work to memorize the planes of his chest as he works on your leggings, tugging them off of one leg before doing the same to the other. 

“I like these.” He says in reference to the maroon panties that he finds underneath. 

“Thanks,” You mumble absentmindedly, tonguing a long scar that runs beneath his right nipple. “They're crotchless.” You spread leg your legs to show him that you’re not lying. At least one of you isn’t a liar. 

The muffled groan that he releases into your neck immediately travels to your sopping core as he manipulates the wet flesh he finds there. Spreading the evidence of your arousal and curling two fingers within you. He seems to be searching for something, and you know exactly what it is when your back bows uncontrollably off the cushions. 

“Oh!” You can’t seem to get past the haze of pleasure that ripples through your core each time he hits that perfect spot within you. “That feels interesting.” You gasp. 

He grunts in agreement lowering his head to take a straining nipple into his warm mouth. You usually aren’t so loud but there seems to be something different about this moment that makes you want to let loose. Maybe _this_ was the union Joey had been talking about. Maybe you liked being married, after all.

“Talk.” His sudden bark of a command takes you off guard, you look into his dark eyes in question. You can see yourself reflected in them. All wanton and bleary-eyed. 

You don’t quite understand. “Talk?” 

He fits another finger and the sound of loud squelching fills the room. That’s you. You’re so painfully wet, it drips from your core, coating his fingers and the leather beneath you. “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it,” You echo. Something seems to take possession of your tongue as your head further fogs. Until it feels like it’s destined to release itself from your ears. “I like it when my husband touches my pussy.” You boldly admit. 

His actions falter and you take great pleasure in taking him off guard. Nipping at your breast, he regains his composure. “What do you want from me, little wife?”

A kiss. 

When was the last time he kissed you? You can’t recall but you know he doesn’t do it often enough. Leaning forward, you taking ownership of his lips. Remembering now that the first and last time had been the first evening you’d dined with Negan. You’d been so intimidated, and in a room full of people. You’d barely processed it.

Now. It was completely different now. He’s like warm silk beneath your tongue. Pulling you deeper as he attempts to take control of the kiss. The scruff of his beard tickles your sensitive skin and leaves you yearning for more as he pulls away. 

“I want more.” You mewl. Your head barely recognizes his descent until he’s _there_ between your trembling thighs. Looking up at you with absolute mirth in his irises. 

“My greedy wife.” The heat from his words lightly caresses your sensitive folds. 

You’d never had someone _down_ _there_ before _…_ it’s _interesting_ to say the least. 

“Oh my—! Don’t stop!” You cry. He grips your legs indecently high as he laps at your clit with the tip of his tongue. Each one causes your hips to buck as liquid heat pours from your sex in abundance. “What is this?”

He meets your gaze, humor shimmering in his eyes, to realize that your own are wide with an almost childish astonishment. “No one’s ever given you oral?”

“First to give it and first to receive it,” You attempt to push his head back down in a vain attempt. “Seems like your my first for a lot of things, huh?”

He mumbles his sentiment before delving back between your thighs. His arms snake up your torso, taking possession of each breast as he stiffens his tongue, driving into your folds with such a fevered pace that the edge of your vision begins to darken.

“Yes, harder!” You gasp. His fingers squeeze your nipples in an unyielding grip. Pulling the knot tighter in your belly as the pain in your breasts increases. With a loud, trembling moan the heat begins to pour from your core at an alarming rate. Only for him to pull away. “Wha—?” You gasp. 

He slams into you in one brutish thrust, pushing you further off the edge. 

“That’s it,” His hips quicken as he sits up, pulling your lower half into his lap as he pinches a breast, “feel what I’m doing to you, baby. Feel what only your husband can do to you.” 

“So fucking good,” You whimper, the rare explicit falling from your lips spurs him closer towards his release. It’s only fair. You want him to experience what you’ve had, a brief reprieve from the pain. That’s what this is. “Please, husband.” Gritting your teeth at a particularly well-placed thrust, you continue. “Cum inside me. I want to feel my husband’s— _oh_ —cum inside me.”

He watches, slack-jawed as you speak, fulfilling your request with only several more erratic thrusts that push you deeper into the cushion before he releases within you. The feeling has the unexpected consequence of pushing you over the edge once more, your soaking walls clenching around his pulsating length until your both swearing and slick with sweat. 

“Fuck,” He collapses bonelessly onto your chest. You revel in the weight, your usual routine, shuffling through a variety of emotions before they leave you unfeeling once more, “hope that sobered you up.”

Squinting, you briefly debate disputing his claim before saying ‘fuck it’. You _were_ a little tipsy. You couldn’t believe what you’d said earlier, that wasn’t you. You’re tempted to cover your face in embarrassment but you're boneless. 

“I like kissing you.” You say, instead. 

He looks up mystified by your somewhat random train of thought.

“Don’t think too much about it.” He finally says.

“I won’t,” You swear. Even so, you find that both of you lean closer. Deepening the addicting embrace as the familiar warmth from it envelops you both. 

Breaking the embrace upon consideration, you wait for him to open his eyes, “I hurt you.” You utter. Your thumb brushing the faint scars that you’d left on his cheek. Before he can respond, the soft knock at the door breaks your contemplative thoughts. 

“Come on in, doll! Don’t be shy.” With a slight quirk of your brow, you question his sanity before rearing off the couch to look at the door which is now slowly opening. “Figure I should spend more time with her, you know? What with me hurting her and all.” He throws your words back in your face, though you admit that the usual coldness isn’t there. The whole thing seems forced.  

Rachel’s eyes take in your comprising position and you pull away from his slack embrace, slightly disgusted by the look of malice she throws you. It’s a front which is meant to quickly mask the hurt. Even so…

“Ugh, you asshole,” You hiss quietly, getting up from the coach to clumsily throw on your clothes. “The only person you’re hurting right now is her. You’re _killing_ her.” 

Negan’s gaze sears heat into the back of your head as you stumble out of his office. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't wait to post this chapter until tomorrow afternoon! it's 11 pm. where my night owls at ? x

Your arm is on fire. Wisps of searing heat envelop your left arm every time you attempt to lift it, so it only makes sense to assume there is a fire. There’s a fire in the factory! You have to warn Kaleb and your mother! Warn Annabella and the other wives. Give Amber and Sherry enough time to alert their boyfriends. So many people. When did so many people make their way into your life?

Maybe you should warn Negan? Yes, Negan. He always knows what to do. 

You try to scream to alert someone of the impending flames but the words come out a slurred mass of vowels, dripping from your lips as slow as tar. They get locked in your sore throat until there’s nothing left but a whimper.  

“Don’t move, hun.” It’s like you’re hearing her voice from the other side of a tunnel. So distant and echoey as you gape at her in wonder. How is she so far away? Yet you feel her on you. The heat of her palm searing a good warmth into your limp hands. They’re so cold and wet.

Wet. It was slowly coming back to you. You’d decided to have a soak in the bath after your latest run-in with your husband. Lukewarm water and a glass of wine from the bottle that Joey had brought to your room, it had sounded so tempting at the time. You don’t remember much after that.

“I think you fell getting out of the tub,” Your vision unexpectedly sharpens. Her faces becoming a little clearer, all wide-eyed and marred with concern. Does she know about the fire? She must know.

“Anna…bella..?” You attempt to tell her that there’s a fire, maybe she could warn the factory before it was too late. She needed to leave you. It was too late for you. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” She gives you a weak smile before carefully wrapping a towel around your naked body. “Let’s get you sitting on the toilet while I clean this up, okay?” She makes quick work of the mess you’d made, instructing you to keep your arm above your head to reduce the bleeding. It becomes clear as she picks up a large shard of glass that you’d dropped a wine glass.

“It hurts…” You moan.

“Coming,” She nears you with a new glass and a pair of tweezers, holding your arm gingerly as she makes a meticulous effort of removing the glass from your arm. “I was so worried about you.” Annabella shakes her head. “I guess this is what Negan means when he says he’ll take care of someone…just leaves them broken.” She mumbles, bitterly. 

She looks better, you notice, having taken the time to clean her face and change into a large t-shirt and a pair of soft, cotton shorts. Her usually wild mass of curls are tame in two braids and if you weren’t quite literally a bloody mess, this would be a wonderful opportunity for a sleepover. 

“Heard you talking earlier, sorry.” You hear yourself croak. Water. You could use a glass of water right now to put out the fire in your throat. The discomfort makes you squirm in your seat. 

With a soft smile, she assures you that’s it’s alright. But you feel the need to push, what they’d been talking about seemed important. You were her friend after all. You could help her. You of all people knew how difficult Negan could be. Maybe you could both team up to crack the enigma that was your husband? It’d sure make for a happier union. One where he doesn’t parade your sexual happenings in front of others. You frown at the thought. 

“Who’s Margarett?” You find yourself asking. The air seems to go colder the moment you speak her name and in a way, you feel like you’re intruding in some sort of memory that isn’t yours to know of. Still, it’s a relief from the heat of the fire. 

Her hands stumble, trembling for a moment before returning to the glass in your skin. The small ‘tink’ that they make each time she places them in the glass reminds you of how foolish you are. What if she hadn’t found you? Then what? The fire in your arm slowly recedes as she continues to work. As you continue to see reason. 

“I wish I could say Margie was some _uber_ bitch. That she worked too much and in some way what happened was her fault. I love my best friend, Y/N. You have to understand that.” She pleads. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt. Wishful thinking, right? Lucille and I had grown up together, side by side our entire lives and never _ever_ a secret between us. It was fate for us to be friends. Are moms had been best friends since high school.”

She clenches her eyes shut for a moment, so hard that you can see the blue veins that strain against the lids. She swallows hard, attempting to reign in her emotions.

“I didn’t even know until I found them at my parent’s barbecue... It was the summertime, we were going to be graduating the following spring. We’d already picked the college we both were going to apply to…UCLA. I was seventeen and Lucille had just turned eighteen. I found them. They were kissing. Lucille and Negan, under my mother’s mulberry tree. I remember that day so clearly…I can almost taste the berries on my tongue. See the floral pattern on her skirt and that _look_ in her eye…” She pulls in a shuddering breath, wiping the tears from the tip of her nose. “Negan was twenty-eight and I _know_ that’s fucked, Y/N. God! I knew! I fucking knew it was…but that wasn’t what concerned me at the time.”

“Then what was it?” Through your drunken haze, you can see how guilty and miserable she looks. Despite everything, it makes you feel warm. Like you aren’t alone in your own feelings of drowning in guilt. 

“Negan was a teacher at our high school. But he was also married to her older sister, Margarett.” She finally omits. 

“Oh,” You barely wince as she plucks a large shard of glass from your hand. “That’s _unfortunate_.”

“I kept their secret because she was my best friend. She said she loved him.” She whispers back just as quietly, maybe more reverently. Like the walls had ears and would tell of what she’d done.  

“Did he love her?” You ask. You’d heard of stories where teachers had fallen for their younger student, it always seemed so senseless to you. They could never live together under society’s mandates, so why bother with the whole affair?

She stays quiet for a moment tending to your wounds before turning to fetch another towel. Had all that blood come from you? “He loved her, more than anything, Y/N. I never understood. I still don’t. How they could destroy not just one, but two families. _My_ family. They were selfish. _Lucille_ was selfish, but I still miss her every day.”

“How did she die?” You figure it’s only fitting to ask. It seemed that’s where this conversation was meant to end up. Whenever someone talked about their past it always ended with death and carnage. 

“She was in the hospital…a miscarriage. It was Negan’s. That day at the hospital was fucking terrible. At first, no-one knew, but the harder she tried to hide it…” She shakes her head, dabbing at her eyes with the bloodstained cloth. “It was a domino effect that couldn’t be stopped. Her dad was a local politician, nothing terribly important, but that man had always put his image before anything else. He locked us in that room and said no one could know. There was so much crying and shouting…we didn’t discover what was happening outside until it was too late.”

"Margaret wanted to call the police, you know? She only wanted to hurt Negan.” Her usually vibrant copper-colored eyes are the most lifeless you’ve ever seen on a living person. A look that is usually reserved for the walking dead. 

“Why?” You ask, besides the obvious reason, there seems to be more to that part of the story. 

Annabella smiles sardonically, looking first at you then back at your bleeding arm. “Margarett couldn’t have kids. Humiliation but mostly jealousy, probably. She started strangling Lucille, even though she was the one in the hospital bed. The entire time we’d been trying to restrain Negan and Lucille’s father, get them away from each other. My father and my brother held each of them, we were trying to handle _them_ —! We didn’t—! I-I didn’t! She killed her…” Annabella looks unseeing. Like she’s there in that moment again. A flurry of limbs and screaming and death. So much death. “She killed her…hours after she’d lost her baby. Now we had a completely new problem,” She shrugs, helping you rise from your perch atop the toilet and towards your bed. 

“Problem? That sounds kind of harsh,” You murmur, now conflicted by the new knowledge that no doubt needed to be examined before interacting with Negan, again. This explained so much and so little, all at once. And then there was Annabella who’d always been so cheerful and helpful to you. Constantly going out of her way to check on you when you’d been wallowing in your own self-pity. This whole time she’d been fighting off her own demons. You were pitiful. 

“That’s how Lucille’s dad had framed it: a problem. Margaret had choked her to death while we’d all stood in the same room, too busy to notice, and it was a _problem_. The thing is, Y/N, I go over that moment— _every_ hour, down to the  _second_ —in my head…” She helps you slip beneath the covers of your bed, handing you a glass of water from seemingly nowhere. 

She’s quiet for so long that you have to shake her from her stupor. Otherwise, she’d be lost.  

“Negan. He loved them both. He really did. I see that, even now. Maybe that explains now and how we’re here, doesn’t it?” She peers at you. With an expression of hope that only a child could possess. 

It doesn’t, not even one bit. Still, you ask, “What about you?”

The sudden expression of confusion on her face breaks your heart. “Me?” She mumbles. Almost as if her very being is only an afterthought to her. It apparently is. 

“You’re okay with sleeping with your best friend’s boyfriend?” There isn’t an ounce of judgment in your voice. “Her sister’s husband?”

“It is so... _so_ complicated, my darling.” Leaning forward, she takes the glass of water before placing a soft kiss on your cheek. She doesn’t pull away. Annabella glances down at your lips for a fleeting moment before you barely register her lips upon yours. Lighter than a feather. She retreats with a dainty sniff, tucking the duvet beneath your chin as she does. 

“He’s right, though.” Your eyes beg for an explanation to her words as she stands at your doorway, one foot over the threshold. “You do remind me of her. Margarett. You look nothing like her. But it’s in the way you carry yourself. You have this look in your eyes, Y/N. Innocent, but not really. Almost, like you know something…but you can’t admit it to yourself.” For a moment she looks upon you. Like you’re actually her. _Margarett_. And she’s mourning her all over again. 

She leaves without another word. 

And the fire. Oh, the fire. 

It consumes you, no longer held at bay.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little on the short side but I’d like to inform the masses that I will be out of the country for the next several weeks. Bare with me as I attempt to find wifi and upload. x

You remember as a teenager how obsessed your generation was with the internet. The first—and last—thing you’d grab for was your phone each day. An unconscious reaction. Maybe you hadn’t liked your life despite having everything you could possibly need. You’d spent countless hours scrolling on feeds and double tapping pictures of unrealistic expectations. 

Perfect bodies with even more imperfect lives. 

In hindsight, it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve been addicted to.

 ** _Addiction_**. What a precarious word and so quick to prey upon you when your back is turned. When you're the most defenseless and weak. _**Pathetic**_. 

Upon waking and bypassing the water on your nightstand, your trembling fingers take ahold of the small flask that Amber had gifted you some time ago.

_**Being fucked for pills isn’t the worst thing in the world? You could become a real whore. Whoring yourself out in the basement. Then you’d really have something to complain about. What’s an ungrateful mother compared to a dead one?** _

The thoughts come at an alarming rate. Not even that precious moment of reprieve that your mind is meant to give you each morning can save you from the intrusive thoughts. They pound at your head. Clawing, _burrowing_ themselves deeper into your sanity. 

Taking the first sip of bourbon, the feeling of drowning diminishes to a bearable point. Yet the anxiousness stays. A byproduct of self-medicating on an absentee mind. You know what you’re doing is wrong. To an extent. Another sip, and this time, it doesn’t hurt as much.

Shifting once more onto your back, your opal necklace catches on the cord of your headphones, bringing you sudden awareness. You’d fallen asleep to Eliza’s playlist last night after Keira had left your room, desperately hoping that her words could somehow put your life into perspective. Seeking a distraction, you hastily hit rewind and adjust your headphones to listen. 

 **Hi, Liza. Feeling off, again?** Subconsciously, you nod along. **I know I am.**

**But it’s not what you think. It’s not the world is ending kind of ‘off’. It’s a boy, kinda ‘off’. So call it what you may. I don’t get boys. They tell you one thing and do the complete opposite. And we as female are left to just hurt. How is it that Eve had to be punished for something Adam basically forced her into? I told my mother the same thing I’m telling you and she just ended up lecturing me on why I shouldn’t be sleeping during church.**

Your eyes pick a blank spot to focus on as you listen to Eliza discuss the merits of love. To you it was simple. It didn’t exist. Not anymore, at least.

 **Boys are worthless, Eliza. So excuse me while I fill your car ride with sappy love songs about people experiencing the inevitable. That is all.**  

The familiar chords of a guitar flood your ears as you take another sip of bourbon. 

 _Tell me what you're feeling. I can take the pain._ Nibbling your lip, you consider the moment when you and Negan had danced to this very song. How foolish you’d been. For a fleeting moment, you’d actually believed that life could be as bittersweet. But that was then, this was now. _Now_ , you knew more sordid details of your husband’s past. How he’d cheated on his wife and gotten an underage girl pregnant. 

 _Tell me what your heart wants. Such a simple thing. My heart is like paper. Yours is like a flame._ The words seem to taunt you now and you hit the **‘next’** button on your CD player _._

The next song starts with a soft melody that you vaguely recall from _before_. It’s then that you allow yourself to be Eliza for a moment. A temporary heartbreak over a fleeting boy’s affection. 

Wouldn’t it be so nice to have Eliza’s problems?

 _I’m halfway gone, sleepless I'm battle-worn. You’re all I want, so bring me the dawn._ Settling further into your pillows, you shut your eyes, attempting to keep the overwhelming feeling inside you at bay.  

 _Been in the dark for weeks and I've realized you're all I need. And I hope I'm not too late._ You ultimately fall back asleep, the volume on its highest setting and tears hanging precariously off the tip of your lashes.

An undetermined amount of time floats by in which you drift in and out. Getting up only to use the bathroom and take another drink from your flask when the thoughts become too much. When the light outside your window has dimmed and the sound of footsteps outside your door becomes less frequent, you awaken. The slight shaking of your shoulders luring you to just above the surface of consciousness. 

A voice coos, somewhere close to your ear. “Wake up, sunshine.”

Sunshine. A fleeting smile crosses your face as you consider the affectionate nickname. Kaleb used to call you sunshine. As a child you’d always been an early riser, waking with the first rays of sun to gaze serenely out your window. 

“Kaleb?” You hear yourself croak. Even you can hear the blind hope that bubbles up from the cracks in the surface of your words. 

“Yeah, sis. It’s me.” He kneels beside your bed and when you’re fully coherent, you lunge for him, crushing him in an embrace that speaks more than words ever could. Then there are the tears, they come at an alarming rate until he’s pulled you onto the floor and into his lap. He rocks you like a newborn baby, smoothing his hand down your back in an attempt to soothe the soft sobs that claw their way up your throat. 

Brushing the hair from your eyes, he wonders aloud, “What’s wrong, Y/N?”

“Nothing,” You croak. “I just missed you. Where’d you go, brother? I looked for you everywhere.” Your voice cracks on the last word. 

“On my first solo run,” He brightens suddenly, eager to inform you of the opportunities that Negan has given him. At this rate, he predicts, he’ll be a lieutenant by the end of the next month. He’s so clueless it’s almost endearing. But maybe, you wonder, maybe this is all for the best. Resting your head against his broad shoulders, you soak in an embrace that for once has no collateral damage attached. “Things haven’t been so good with mom, though.” He’s suddenly quieter.

“What is it?” Attempting to sit up straighter, you cock your head, studying his anxious expression. “Has she not been taking her meds?”

“She has,” He rushes to assure you before lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. Almost as if the factory walls had ears. Maybe they did. “She’s thinking about…leaving. Of course, I’ve told her it’s a selfish idea. We have a real chance of building something here and—”

“Let her go,” You quietly utter, as you sink back into his embrace. You’re suddenly exhausted. Kaleb gazes at you with unabashed surprise. So fucking exhausted. “If she wants to run from _here_. A bed, food in her stomach... Where I’ve whored myself out for medication, not even tell me—good _fucking_ riddance. All we need is each other, Kaleb.” The collar of his shirt bunches tight in your unyielding grip. 

He winces at your words but doesn’t argue, instead, humming a song beneath his breath as he softly rocks you in his arms. You recognize it from your childhood: _You Are My Sunshine_. “Is he good to you, at least?” Apprehension leaks from every syllable. Almost as if he’s afraid to know the answer. 

Considering his question, you mumble, “Yes. I’ve only done things that I’ve wanted to do.”

 _It could be worse._ You quietly assure yourself. From now on, that will be your new mantra. He lapses into silence, no doubt trying to come to terms with the reality of his sister’s situation. He embraces the thought for a moment before pushing it away. 

 _It could be worse_ , he silently convinces himself. 

“Why are you here anyway?” You ask, playing with the buttons on his leather vest. Surely he wouldn’t have risked falling into Negan’s bad graces to deliver the news of your mother’s apparent departure. Good _fucking_ riddances. Your hand twitches instinctively towards your flask and you cover the action by cupping Kaleb’s cheek. 

“Your husband invited me to dinner. I figure I could escort you.” He gives you an easy smile, lifting you from his lap when he realizes how much time has passed. Dinner will start soon. You rest weakly on the edge of your bed as he goes to the closet to fetch you something to wear. You’re still tired, borderline sickly as you shake the remnants of sleep from your frame. The fog has yet to clear in your mind as you consider how long you’d slept. 

“Not that one,” You shake your head at his choice. A long-sleeved number. You feel unseasonably warm. 

He settles on a shift dress, helping you to the bathroom so that you can dress. Every bone in your body feels as if it’s been replaced with cement. Maybe you should cut back on the booze? Maybe just for tonight.

“Something happened to your arm?” Kaleb notices. You rest on the edge of your tub, blinking away the black spots that appear in your vision.

“An accident.” You leave it at that.

Shaking his head, he gives you a bemused look before closing the bathroom door. You dress quickly, fixing your hair as best as you can and making sure that the opal necklace is ever present. 

“Beautiful, sis.” You shuffle from the bathroom with a tired smile. You are happy. Happy that Kaleb is here and attending yet another mind-numbing dinner with you. You don’t have to speak of the unpleasant things that he’s seen you do or more importantly, what he hasn’t. He doesn’t even ask. You love that about him. He’s your twin and he _knows_ , somehow he just knew exactly what you needed. “Ready to go?”

As ready as you’ll ever be. You still weren’t sure what you’d say to Negan. What you’d say to Annabella after last night. She’d given you so much to consider and like a coward you’d run from it all, hiding at the bottom of a bottle.  

“How about a piggyback ride?” You toe on your battered sneakers before saddling him with a look of amusement. It’d been so long and you’re so tired, you can’t resist. He notes aloud that you’ve gotten rather thin, so the trip should be relatively easy on his back. 

“Starving will do that to you.” You quip.

He picks you up with a sudden flourish and you have a sudden flashback to your childhood. Of Sunday mornings by your bay window and the thousands after that, that all take place amid your adolescence. Foggy remembrances of watching the sunrise on your parent’s farm. Of Kaleb quietly knocking at your door and carrying you to the kitchen table. 

“Oh, hush.” He chides. 

“Remember when you’d carry me everywhere?” At seven, your twin brother had had a growth spurt. He’d been almost a foot taller than you, so naturally, he’d taken to carrying you everywhere. 

His laugh is bittersweet. “Remember when I dropped you going up the stairs? You sprained your ankle, right?” 

“Then there really was a reason for you to carry me everywhere.” His deep laughter mingles with yours as you continue to trade memories. You’re practically breathless, riding waves of euphoria. _Feeling_ , by the time you reach the dining room.

“Remember when you snuck out to go see Bailey Simmons from across the street? You fell into mom’s prized rosebushes.” You shake your head at the memory, to say your mother had been livid was an understatement. 

Kaleb stops so abruptly in front of the entrance to the dining room that it leaves you scrambling for purchase on his back. His hand barely touches the handle of the door when he quietly asks, “Remember when dad was still alive?”

You attempt to swallow the painful lump in your throat. Yes. You could remember very clearly when your father was still alive and breathing. When you were all happy and weren’t starving on the side of a road. Being primed for another life. This life. 

Your throat tightens as you consider the unspoken questions that lay just beneath the surface of his remark. “That was such a long time ago, Kaleb.” You finally say.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Still, he doesn’t turn the handle. He just rests his hand there, almost as if he’s staring past the door and into the people on the other side. Negan’s boisterous laughter pierces through the metal of the door as if on queue. 

“We could run,” He quietly utters. So quiet you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it. “If that’s what you really wanted, Y/N. Tell me and we’ll go. We could pack our bags and leave tonight, grab food and mom. I know how they think, they’d never find us.” He continues to ramble, his grip is now so tight that the white of his knuckles protrudes from beneath the pigment of his skin. 

Your head drops onto the back of his neck, embracing his just as tightly as his grip before doing the only thing you can do. Disengaging your legs from around his torso, you grab the doorknob, and together with your hands clasped, open the door together. 

After all, it could be worse. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alot of you have been wondering, why doesn't the reader just leave if it's so bad? i hope the last chapter answered your question. also, take in mind that alcohol addiction comes in many shapes and forms. x

“There he is,” Negan’s balled fist comes crashing down onto the mahogany table, the silverware upon it making a harsh clattering sound. He’s already drinking, but then again, so are you. “My favorite brother-in-law.”

He stands, clasping Kaleb in a one-armed embrace as you catch the eye of one of the kitchen staff. Instantly, a small glass of red wine is placed into your outstretched hand. You savor the bitter, yet dry taste as you brazenly eyeball your husband.

“I’m you’re only brother-in-law,” Kaleb remarks wryly, taking a seat at the table. He engages Simon in casual dialogue, the two quickly becoming lost in their own world. It’s as if the past several minutes had never happened. Like he hadn’t propositioned you with aspirations of escaping. How did he do that? How did everyone do that?

You’d half expected for there to be some sort of disgust to rise in your stomach when Negan’s attention shifts to you. He’s traded in his usual white tee for a fitted gray thermal. Interestingly enough, even he seemed to get cold. Was it really that cold? You’d forgotten your cardigan in your bedroom but the room seemed almost stifling to you.

Nonetheless, you can’t help the way your eyes roam his broad frame, stopping just short of his lips that move wordlessly the entire time you study him. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to care about all the issues that are urgently scratching at the outskirts of your mind. Not now, at least. Just the thought of his past exhausted you and the idea of broaching the subject with him in a manner that wouldn’t cause backlash was the equivalent of breaking into Fort Knox with a plastic spoon.

“Wife,” He greets.

He carries an air of dominance that makes you just want to submit. Despite everything, you think it’d be easier if you just gave in. From the corner of your eye, Kaleb gives you a fleeting look, feigning indifference.

“Husband,” You greet in kind, cocking your head and dampening your bottom lip deliberately so that his attention is drawn to the action.

He cups the back of your neck giving a light squeeze as he bends forward to take possession of your willing lips. You quite enjoy the slight, warm pressure of his tongue as he invades the space between your lips. Pulling you even tighter against his chest until you can feel the throaty groans that erupt from his chest.

His fingers twine along the strands of hair that fall from your hastily made bun. He’s so close, filling your vision with a slight smirk and a playful leer. “Cold, babydoll?” He inquires, dropping his gaze to your nipples that strain from beneath your dress.

“Keep me warm?” He seems pleased with your request, pulling you to the head of the table where he takes a seat, placing you in his warm lap.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had you, little wife.” He presses a juicy grape to your mouth, pushing it between your plump lips until the tip of his index finger is encased within the wet vice. You tease his finger with a light suction before releasing it with a soft, wet pop. It tastes like the wine you’re currently nursing, only sweeter and it tastes like him.

“You can have me tonight.” The very moment you answer there’s a slight lull in your brother’s conversation. He’d heard you.

Cupping the curve of your ass, he pulls you tighter against his lap, the slight bulge of his member poking you in the hip has you releasing a sensuous purr of approval. You’re not sure what’s gotten into you. You only know this feeling of lightheadedness seems permanent and you can’t discern when it had surfaced. Or maybe it’s always been there?

The door before you opens, pulling you from your thoughts as the other wives pool into the room in a uniformed manner.

Sherry barely spares you a glance, conveniently taking the seat by Simon’s side while Amber and Victoria take a seat together at the end of the table.

“You were right,” He speaks quietly into your ear, rubbing firm circles where the hem of your dress ends. “I was killing her.” He admits, addressing what you assume is Rachel’s absence.

Yes, you’d noticed _that_ but were more interested in where Annabella was. She was never late. Before you have time to address his somewhat confusing confession and correct him, the door flies open, leaping off the hinges.

Simon snorts quietly into his glass, throwing it back quickly before reaching for the bottle on the table. “Oh, shit. I’m gon’a need this.” He mumbles to himself.

Without warning, Negan stands, depositing you in the same chair before rounding the table with a sudden fury that startles you. “What did you do?” He barks, snatching Annabella’s upper arm in a grip so tight that you flinch _for_ her.

“Annabella? What happened?” Amber shrieks, you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Why was everyone making such a big deal about this?

“It’s just hair, Negan.” Snatching her arm from his grasp, she saunters towards the last remaining chair. “Besides,” She gleams, cocking her head in your direction. “Y/N likes it, right?”

Annabella’s mane of massive curls is gone, replaced with a chic buzzcut that you had to admit fit her perfectly. It was almost like you were looking at her, but a new stronger version of her, you note, observing the design that she’d taken the time to perfect near her temple. She’d left the top a little longer and altogether looks amazing, _lighter_.

“I just figured it’d get in the way on runs,” She continues. The room quiets as she casually picks at the cheese plate on the table.

Oh, now you get it.

“You are not a Savior, Bella. Get that shit through your goddamn mind and fucking quickly!” The coldness of which Negan speaks has you pressing even further back into your chair. The intimacy of which he utters her name has the guilt churning in your gut. A byproduct of knowing the truth.

“Yes. I. Am. Why are you being like this? I’m good with my hands and a gun, Negan. I could be an asset to the team.” She rises with each word before turning to Simon expectantly. He avoids her gaze and the hope in her eyes dims.  

“Fine, I’m leaving then.” She jerks her chin stubbornly in the direction of the door. “Before you say anything—I’m not taking anything with me so you can shove that shitty remark on the tip of your tongue up your ass. I don’t need the God complex.”

Negan’s releases an ugly laugh that folds the edges of your stomach over each other, before retorting, “You say this every fucking month. You’re not going anywhere, now sit your ass down. It’s time for dinner.”

“Shit,” Beside you Kaleb shift’s uneasily in his seat, taking a sip of water before tossing  a look of concern in your direction. Ashamed, you avoid his gaze.

He’s not usually like this. Or was he? Were you the exception— _correction_ —one of them?

“Screw you, Negan.” With a look of absolute defeat, she turns away. “There has to be something better than this.”

“No, please!” Your legs carry you around the table and you’re between them clutching at her arm before you can even process it. “Please don’t leave me! You can’t go out there, not by yourself. Lucille wouldn’t have wanted this.” Your voice lowers on the last sentence, highly conscious of the way Negan stiffens when you utter her name.

“I can’t do this anymore, Y/N.” Cupping your face gently she places a soft kiss on your cheek. A goodbye. The thought of Annabella leaving you, the only person besides your brother who actually cared for you, to die on the side of the road, or worse terrified you.

Facing your husband with a look that ultimately leaves him breathless, you unconsciously utter the same words from only days before, “You’re killing her, Negan! I want her to stay, please.” You plead.

You look so much like her at this moment, he thinks. That soft, broken look that mars your natural beauty. For a moment, he pictures Margarett. In particular, the night he’d come home late from work, the fourth day in a row, smelling of the perfume she’d bought Lucille last Christmas. _She knows,_ he’d remembered thinking. _Here it finally comes_. But she’d grabbed his hand and taken him to bed without a word.

She’d died that night and every day after that until she’d finally stopped breathing. He’d killed her.

“Please, husband!” You try again, trying to break him from whatever memory has seized him. He looks miles away and broken.

“Negan,” Kaleb stands, head swimming with uncertainty. He’s not sure of what’s unraveling before him, only that you’re in the middle of it all and he wants you safe, away from this. “What if we do several practice runs? Nothing too far, and we have her try guarding the gate.”

The room seems to take another pause, waiting for Negan to condemn Kaleb’s idea. You place your hands on his chest in hopes to calm him down and steady your swaying frame.

“No gate duty.” He grunts, not once taking his eyes from yours. The others watch astounded as his arms slowly rise, curling around your frame to crush you to his. He’s still trapped in that space between past and present, holding you and Margarett.

“Okay, we’ll find her a leadership position in the factory then.” He nods at Kaleb’s suggestion and the room slowly calms. Annabella giving a small shriek of victory that makes the carousel your on spin faster.

“I love you, Y/N.” You return her embrace, which is quite awkward as your still in Negan’s arms. She looks over your shoulder, quietly uttering to Negan. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, Bella.” He says after a moment, pleading with her to understand. “I’m trying.”

You cut in, your words slurred, “I-I don’t feel well.”

Then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I've been on vacation and now that I'm back, I'm sick and dealing with the worse case of jetlag. x

“We’ve been waiting for you.” You can’t bring yourself to fall into his trap. Like the other dream you’d had so many nights before, you’re in your favorite booth, a strawberry milkshake placed equal distance between you and what can only be your psyche’s interpretation of Jesus Christ. He motions again to the milkshake. “I insist, Y/N. Go on.”

You flatly decline, the motion, nothing more than a violent jerk of your head.

“I see,” He sighs, motioning for the waitress. Her back turned, she answers that she’ll be with him shortly.  

“So you’re actually talking to me now?” You can’t help but to curiously inquire after an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. It’s quite odd, and much in the way you remember that internet videos used to buffer, his voice seems to stutter and lag behind his mouth’s movement.

“I thought I’d play your favorite song.” On queue, your perception heightens, becoming cognizant of the song that now plays softly on the restaurant’s speakers.

_Tell me what your heart wants, Such a simple thing_

_My heart is like paper, Yours is like a flame_

“Why are you crying?” He stares, eyes bright as he sips leisurely on his milkshake.

“I’m not—” Your fingertips lightly brush the skin beneath your eye, feeling the dampness, “sure.” You lamely finish.

The waitress comes to the table before he can further interrogate you, inquiring in a slightly impatient voice as to what you’d like. You consider the simple question for a moment, feeling as if there’s more at stake then a drink choice. As if you could give a wrong answer. “A coke, please?” You finally say.

She leaves with an impatient huff, disappearing behind a swinging door. Funny, you’d never seen a cook. Or any other staff for that member.

Gazing out the window, you study the several cars in the parking lot before meeting Jesus’s gaze. His leveled stare meets your defiant one, he pitches forward, carefully stirring his milkshake with a straw as he considers something. “Why do you hate yourself, Y/N?” He gently asks.

“I don’t…” You shoulders sag, your body folding in on itself as you answer him truthfully, “I don’t know.”

Your gaze returns to the parking lot, the conversation collapsing without two willing participants.

_Take it if you want it, I'm so tired I just don't care_

_Can't you see how much you hurt me?_

_It's like I wasn't there_

For fuck's sake! You were tempted to cover your ears. Did they not play any other songs?

He starts again after what seems like several minutes, quirking a brow at your obvious discomfort. “We’ve thought long about this, Y/N. I know this is hard to hear but we’ve considered—”

“Who is we?!” You shout, now reaching your boiling point. With a high-pitch shriek, you grab his milkshake, chucking it across the diner. Waves of satisfaction roll through your tensed frame when the sound of shattering glass fills your ears.

“Here we go.” The waitress suddenly appears with a glass of red wine and a strawberry milkshake. Jesus takes his drink, sipping at a leisurely pace with what you’re sure is a glint of humor in his eyes.

“I don’t want this. I wanted a _coke,_ lady!" Shoving the glass of wine towards the waitress with barely concealed annoyance, you sit down expectantly, impatiently waiting for his answer. "Stop speaking in riddles and just tell me why I keep coming here!"

“My father,” He simply introduces, disregarding your demand and motioning his head towards the waitress who now watches you with an indescribable look. Much in the way, you imagine, humans stare at ants. Some curiosity and just a hint of inferiority.

“God is a woman?” With a bad dye job, you finish mentally.

“I take many shapes.” You jump, startled from a deep voice which reverberates through the speakers at the very same moment the waitress opens her mouth. She’s faceless but at the same time, _isn’t_ and just the thought of comprehending _this_ was making your head throb. Her eyes narrow. “It seems you've taken the shape of something as well....” The waitress resumes talking in her regular voice, the music on the speakers now continuing to play.

_I can't make you see, If you don't by now_

_I'll get through these chains, Somehow, somehow_

“Please,” You sob, the large tears falling into the glass that had somehow inched closer towards your shaking frame. “I just want a fucking soda.”

It’s as if someone is pulling on the fraying strings of your sanity, slowly unraveling what’s left. You hang in tatters.

“You want a lot of things,” She mutters, looking almost disgusted as you continue to sob, hands pressed to your trembling lips. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to escape your problems at the bottom of a bottle.”

“What my father is trying to say,” Jesus cuts in, giving her a condescending look, “is that we’re all made up of choices—the ones of others, but most importantly, our own. Eventually, Y/N, you’ll have to start facing yours.” He waves his hand with a heavy sigh and the glass of wine becomes a coke.

_I can't make you see, I can't make you see_

_I can't make you see, I can't make you see, I can't make you see_

The music in the diner becomes impossibly louder, ringing in your ears until you have the urge to claw at your eyes. You jerk to awareness, becoming entangled in your headphones as your assaulted by the smells and vision of the Sanctuary’s infirmary. You pluck your headphones from your ear, but not before noticing that the song playing was the very same from your dream.

How long had you been here? The moonlight streaming in from the windows signals that it ’s late, very late. Pressing pause on your player, you remove the CD, noticing the small scratch on its surface.

You shift in the small bed, observing that the entirety of your left arm, from wrist to armpit, is bandaged. Where were Annabella and Kaleb? Negan? Sitting up further in bed, the slight tug of the IV in your arm halts your escape.

You’d sensed her presence long before she’d decided to speak, so you’re not surprised when she asks, “Leaving so soon?”

“What happened to me?” You’re so cold, but the feeling is a welcomed relief from the heat that had been burning you these past several days.

She steps closer, into the natural light, the moon illuminating her vivid gray eyes and a petite nose. “You had an infection in your arm from an improperly placed birth control implant, as well as some remaining glass that made its way into your bloodstream. Annabella explained how you fell the other night.” She helpfully adds, reaching into her coat pocket and handing you a bottle of pills. “Antibiotics.”

“What will I have to do for these?” You eye the bottle with disdain before taking it. Maybe Negan will want anal.

She looks taken back for a moment, seemingly unsure of what you mean. Although, it's suddenly harder for her to meet your gaze, and you think, maybe she does. “Nothing, they’re absolutely free, ma’am.”

You resist the urge to laugh in her face. “ _Nothing_ comes without a cost.” You dryly retort.

She seems taken back, shifting in place.

“Can I go now?” Your harsh words seem to unfreeze her. You know that this woman does not deserve your anger, but the resentment and hurt from the past several weeks were starting to bubble beneath the surface of your skin. You weren’t sure how long it’d be until you exploded, just like you’d done in your dream.

“Yes, of course.” She rushes to your aid, flitting around your cot as she removes the IV with a gentleness that surprises you. “My name is Lisa, by the way.”

You resist the urge to release a tortured sigh. Your recent dream had left you shaken to your core and in need of contemplation; still, you decide to humor the obviously nervous woman.

“Y/N. It’s…nice to meet you.” Hunkering down beneath the blankets to stove away from the chill in the room as she insists upon doing one last check-up, you wonder aloud, “You’re the new doctor?”

She’s quite young and pretty, very pretty.

“Well, sort of, I was midway through my residency when the dead rose.” She laughs nervously, her hand to your wrist as she takes your pulse, “This is all so sudden, they pulled me from Hilltop without telling me much, I’m still not sure what happened to the last doctor, you know...”

“I burnt him.” Her laughter and therefore her nervous ramblings cut off abruptly. Good.

“All done,” She rushes to help you sit up and you notice that your outfit has changed, an oversized t-shirt and a black pair of leggings. “You’re…husband brought you some clothes and Annabella changed you. They thought you might like some music, too. What were you listening to?”

When you make no attempt to engage her in conversation, she delivers a tight smile that suddenly makes her look frailer. “I had to remove your birth control implant when I was treating your infection as a precaution. You’ll be taking oral contraceptives, do you know how to take those?”

You give a shaky nod before inquiring, “When can I have the implant put back in?”

With a reassuring smile, she sits gingerly on the edge of your cot, which you're poised to spring from, antibiotics and CD player in hand. “Maybe in a couple of months, Y/N. Once I locate the oral contraceptives, I’ll have them sent to you. I would have had them ready if I’d known you were going to be so adamant on leaving. Until then, I’d like you to abstain from sexual intercourse unless it’s with a condom.” She gazes at you expectantly, stern and brazen.

You barely resist the urge to laugh at her professional demeanor. She seems so young, _naive_. Getting up to leave, she rushes to remind you that the bandages must stay dry and intact for twenty-four hours.

“Oh, Y/N,” Your hand rests on the handle of the door, “if you ever need to talk, I’m always available.”

You shut the door on her face, cutting her off mid-sentence. It’s there that the quiet of the factory envelops you in a loving embrace and you let the tears come. A deep whimper turns into a choking sob, your chest tightens making it even more difficult to breathe. Without preamble, your feet carry you in a mindless direction. You aren’t sure where you’re going. You only hope that it's far away from here.

.

.

.

You could admit it to yourself, _here_ , among the other drunk patrons that you were suffering. The last piece had slipped into its designated spot, the picture becoming so very, very clear. You had an abundance of choices and a surplus of people who could be with you at this moment to help you embrace those choices. 

But you’d gravitated to The Basement Bar, instead.

Staring now at the small glass of moonshine that the bartender had placed before you, you wonder, what was the appeal? When had alcohol become less of a preferred beverage and more of a way of living? It was almost scary how subtly the dependency had latched onto you. Considering it now, you can’t remember a day that you hadn’t drunk alcohol. Even if it was just a sip before you brushed your teeth in the morning. A small swim from your flask after breakfast.

The feeling of falling takes you on in waves, undulating like the ocean you wish to see—escape to.

A tear drips, heavy with grief, from the tip of your nose until it falls into the glass, distorting your grief-stricken reflection that peers back at you helplessly. 

“Well, look who it is,” Dwight sinks into the barstool on your left, flagging the tender. “Heard you fainted, Lo.”

You gaze at him in question for a moment, pulled from your angst by his casual nickname. _Lolita_ , he explains, the name seemed fitting. You attempt once more to gain some semblance of dignity, scraping your thoughts together in an attempt to feel okay.

“Hey Y/N,” Joey takes the seat on your right and with a quiet huff, requests a soda. They had those? He gives you a small smile, following your line of sight and offers you the old-fashioned bottle of home-made coke. “Here, I’ll grab another one.”

“Hold on a damn minute,” Dwight interjects, pushing a beer in your direction, “it seems like our girl here needs to drown her sorrows. _Here_ , Lo.”

“I’m not drinking tonight.” You softly utter, taking the soda from Joey’s hand, for once, making the right choice. You hadn’t made the decision until the declaration had fallen from your lips, but maybe it was for the best? “Not for now,” You concede, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was nearly three in the morning.

“You can still have fun and not drink,” Joey reassures you, and suddenly you feel regret for the way you’d manipulated him. He’s adorable in a pathetic kind of way.

From beside you, Dwight snorts, lifting his bottle in a mock salute. “If you think we drink to have fun, you’re fucking mistaken—we drink—to forget.”

“Eventually you have to face the choices of others.” He quietly asserts. “You can’t _forget_ her.”

Dwight pauses and his back stiffens, his drink poised at his lips, before quietly asking, “What the fuck did you say?”

“All I said,” He responds, fingers nervously spinning the soda cap beneath his meaty fingers, “was that we can’t just ignore the things that are clearly in front of us, _D_. We’re all made of choices, good and bad.” He speaks with a knowledge that is unknown to you, but he seems to understand that a row with Dwight is pointless, his message seemingly going over his head. He lapses into silence.  

“Tell me, Fat- _fuck_ Joey,” He cocks his head across the room and you both follow his motion. To the edge of the darkened room, where a stout man fondles the breasts of a topless girl. She throws her head back, but you can’t tell whether it’s in ecstasy or an attempt at a reprieve. “What kind of choice is that?”

Bile rises in your throat as her stoic face catches the light from the dimly lit bar. It’s Rachel and even though it’s impossible with the distance and the darkness, her gaze seems to pierce you.

Rachel.

“I can’t fucking do this right now,” You gasp, standing up and grasping the stool when the room seems to take a sharp dive. This was what Negan did when he tired of a woman? The thought actually makes you retch. This will be you. Then you’ll really be a whore, selling yourself for meager points.

A choice. What the fuck did that even mean? Your head throbs, raucous thoughts attempting to beat down the door of your brain while the pain in your arm melds with the hurt in your chest. You are an aching, ticking, time bomb full of repressed anger and worsening regret.

With every breath you shockingly inhale, you ache.

“She’s obviously made her choice.” Dwight tugs at your arm and you snap, pulling from his grasp. “Stay a bit, Lo.”

“Don’t call me that!” You shout over the music, turning without another word and into the crowd of dancers. You’d admired them the first time you’d come here, but now they all seemed dead as if this was there purgatory. How many of these people were actually here by choice?

“Oh, sorry,” The wind escapes your chest as you collide with a solid wall of flesh. A pair of arms grasp your upper arms, hoping to steady you and while you know it isn’t their fault, you can’t help but hiss and pull away when they touch the bruising on your arm.

“Y/N,” David greets with a double-edged grin, his green eyes unnaturally bright from the fluorescence bulbs that hang from the ceiling. “Leaving so soon? Stay a bit, honey.” He grabs for you and you flinch backward.

Mumbling an excuse, you push past him and through the doors of the bar, missing the several pairs of eyes that follow your hasty retreat.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So where have I been? Recently I returned from a vacation in Europe and soon after that, I got my wisdom teeth removed. Total agony. For the past week, I’ve wanted to write but I could barely keep my eyes open, lol. Forgive me and enjoy this long chapter. x

The walk to your room from the bar does nothing for your anger and by the time you reach your room, you’re steeping in it. It rolls off your trembling frame in waves, waiting impatiently for an unfortunate target. You’re mad—no, pissed—at everyone and everything. Pissed at Kaleb for not taking you far from this hell hole, regardless of your fucking answer. Pissed at your mother for not loving you, despite her own selfish reasons. And then there was Negan, so manipulative and hard-headed!

Still, that anger could not mask the disappointment in your heart, directed towards yourself at how easily you’d succumbed to addiction. This wasn’t you and it never had been, instead of dealing with the choices that’d you’d been dealt. You’d shunned them and ran away, hands clasped over your ears and heart like an immature, inconsolable child. 

“Rough night,” He comments. Poised at the edge of your bed, he radiates tense energy in thick waves that you seem to wade through. Shutting your door with a soft click seems to make the room swell with an air of finality. “Seems like a rough fucking night.” He continues casually, leaning forward on his elbows as his dark eyes follow your stiff movements.

Kicking off your shoes with a little bit more force than necessary, you search your drawers for a suitable nightgown. You favored a drink at the moment but with that option firmly off the table, sleep would have to be your next option. 

“I had an infection,” You begrudgingly admit.

“I heard,” He taunts, his tone letting on more than he cares to admit at the moment. That was your husband, never willing to show all his cards at once. Your hands clench around the pill bottle in your back pocket and with a pivot, you chuck the small bottle at his head, mildly disappointed when he catches it. 

“I don’t want anything from you.” You place your CD player on the surface of your dresser with implicit care. “I think you have enough leverage over me, don’t you?”

“Now correct me if I’ve been led astray,” It’s clear that he’s determined to continue his one-sided dialogue, whether you’re a willing participant or not. “Lisa came to me over a fucking hour ago.” With a flourish of his hands, he leans back onto his elbows finally allowing you to speak. 

“I’m sure _Lisa_ should mind her own fucking business,” You snap, pushing your pants past your hips and stepping angrily out of the constricting fabric. “I was at the bar,” You continue, tugging your shirt over your head.

“The bar.” He quietly confirms, shifting forward like a predator. You hardly notice as the fabric of your eyes gives you a brief pardon from his gaze. 

“ _What_ —is that another one of your fucking rules?” You spit, advancing on his tense frame when you can no longer stand the air of arrogance that he emits. “Can I not leave this room without—”

A small, shuddering gasp leaves your lips when he pulls you swiftly over his lap in a dizzying sequence of moves.  

The only indication of the impending slap to the curve of your ass is the whistling of his palm cutting through the air. Yes, he hits you that hard and for a moment you’re left gasping breathlessly for oxygen before you let out an enraged screech. He grasps the hair at the nape of your neck, pushing your head down so as to muffle your screams into your bed sheet as his palm crashes down on the other cheek.

“What are you doing?” You’re struggling ensues as he tugs at the waistband of your panties, furthering exposing more of your ass cheeks to the room and his livid gaze. He’s yet to explain himself and with a pathetic whine, you gain leverage, enough to turn in his lap. You’re rewarded with a harsh tap to the side of your hip and to your utter shock, it hurts way fucking worse. “Negan, I—”

“I’ve been nice to you. Haven’t I, babydoll?” He ignores your question, pushing your head back into the sheets as he tenderly rubs the stinging flesh. A sharp contrast to his harsh words. “I’ve been patient with you breaking my rules.” He grunts, adjusting you on his lap when your body sags, fully going limp as you begin to openly sob.  

_SLAP!_

“You think I haven’t heard about the incident with your mother?” He chuckles, his laugh holding no humor as he gathers your hair, jerking your head at an odd angle to meet his eyes. 

_KRACK!_

“Come to find out that you’re a fucking regular at the bar,” He marvels, awe leaking into his voice. “Well, you’re just fucking asking for it at this point, aren’t you?”

With a huff he pushes you off his lap, keeping a firm grip on the hair at the nape of your neck as he guides you to kneel between his spread legs. 

“Do I not feed you? Clothe you? Look at me, Y/N.” With the tightening of his grip on your chin and the other still firmly knotted in your hair, he brings you closer to his face, until the small puffs of air from his nostrils brush across your tear-stained cheeks.

Your soft sniffling and his deep labored breathing are the only sounds that fill the room as you realize that he’s waiting for an answer. 

“Yes,” You sniff, attempting to wipe away the tears that cloud your vision of his disappointed and angered features. 

“Yes, what?” He growls, drawing so close that you go cross-eyed in an effort to keep contact. 

“Yes, husband!” You cry, squirming pitifully in his grip. 

He nods in acceptance, tugging at your undergarments until your bare and aching before placing you over his lap once again. 

“That’s more fucking like it,” He declares smugly, wiping away some of the tears that collect on your eyelashes. “You’re lucky I don’t have my belt on me, little wife.”

Small miracles, you think. He’s dressed in cotton pants and a soft henley shirt. With a pout, you wipe your nose in the soft material of his pajamas, waiting for him to continue. 

“Eight more. Count them,” He orders. By the third, you’re openly sobbing into his leg and have left quite the impressive damp spot. When he nears the end of your spanking the fight has left you, but so has that heavy feeling of guilt that had settled under your skin ages ago. Light. You are an emptied husk of yourself and if given the chance you could float away. 

Even so, you can’t help but beseech him as to why. He’d threatened you before but there’d never been any indication of an actual follow through.

“This was for your own good. I’ve _noticed_ ,” He continues in a soft voice, rubbing the skin of your ass tenderly as he pushes first the antibiotic onto your tongue shortly followed by a little blue pill. “The smell of liquor on your breath by noon, the slight stumble in your step by eight. You’re just like Margarett, doll.” He picks you up tenderly, cradling you in his arms as he settles you beneath the sheet. 

“I’m nothing like her.” You can’t help but weakly impress, fed up with not only his but Annabella’s insinuations.

“Yes, you are,” He rebukes softly, slipping beneath the sheets and cradling your shaking form. You protest a little but when it’s clear that he’s not budging you let your body relax. “And I’m not going to make the same mistakes that I made before.”

“You just feel guilty.” You attempt to point out the obvious, hoping that it’ll spare you from whatever good deed he’s convinced himself needs to be done. You’re no charity case. 

“Maybe…probably…” He seems to give your statement some genuine thought before tugging his shirt over his head. “Either way, I’m giving you what you’ve been fucking begging for these past several weeks, doll. Such a simple thing,” He hums while tucking you almost beneath his frame. You fall asleep to the feeling of his hand massaging your ass. 

.

.

. 

Try as you might, you aren’t asleep for long. Rolling from beneath Negan’s slack frame there is an instinctive action on your part to reach for the flask tucked beneath your mattress, you barely resist. 

You’ll have to empty it later when you get the chance. 

His hand catches your small wrist, voice full of sleep when he asks, “Where the hell do you think you’re going, little girl?” 

“My ass hurts. I need something for it.” You complain while pushing at his grip. “And I’m _not_ a little girl.”

“Want to explain your fucking tantrum from before?” He tugs at a strand of your hair, _hard_. “You’ve been a brat and you needed to be reminded of that. Now sit down while I draw you a bath.” He mumbles getting up from the bed, his voice a little sharper as he nears awareness. Your eyes trail his tall frame as he disappears through the door to your bathroom.

With no other choice but to sit down, very, very gently, on your bed and wait for him to call you to the other room, you busy yourself with checking the time. In an attempt to do so, you peak through the curtain of your window, taking in the familiar view of the Sanctuary’s courtyard. It’s early in the morning, judging by the sky which is a light grey coloring. 

“Come on, little wife.” The soft tugging at your hair alerts you to Negan’s silent approach and when he rests his chin against your shoulder, you’re tempted to sink into his embrace. So you do. The small bolt of electricity makes you flinch but you both pointedly ignore the feeling, favoring denial for the moment. 

He doesn’t speak, tugging you along and into the bathroom where the small window above the toilet has been cracked just a bit to allow the steam cascading from the tub to escape. He shuts the door behind him making the already small room seem smaller with his larger than life presence. 

You want to ask if he’ll be joining you, but you soon get your answer when he pushes his pants down his legs and sinks into the warm bath. With a tired sigh, he snags a washcloth from the towel rack nearby, dipping it in the warm before laying it across his face. For a moment you feel guilty because you know that you are partly the cause of his ire and sleepless nights. The feeling soon passes, taking on the capacity of a rolling rain cloud. 

The water looks inviting and the steam feels delightful against your skin, stepping forward, however, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror.

How many times have you found yourself in this position? Staring back at your reflection, naked and unassuming. There is a half-empty bottle of whiskey in your medicine cabinet. 

You have a choice, you recall. But you’re so afraid. Are you even strong enough to make it? To pick your broken frame from off the ground? It seems impossible at this point. You’d fallen for so long. It all seems so hopeless.

“I lost people…very close to me. It was right before all this shit happened.” Negan’s talking now, face still covered. “One day they were there…and then it all just fell apart. They died.”

“Lucille and Margarett?” You ask, for the moment distracted from your urgent cravings. You step forward until you find yourself sinking into the opposite end of the tub. The bath is quite large but so is he, so your legs end up pressed against his ribcage. “Annabella said you loved them both.” You maintain. 

Removing the cloth from his face, you’re left temporarily breathless by the emotion that he portrays so clearly. He’s so very hurt and you wonder, maybe this is how everyone felt underneath their skin. Their day to day facade. They were just good at hiding it.

Negan had obviously had enough practice. 

“I did, Y/N. I’m a selfish fucker, aren’t I?” Self-deprecation. How nice. Your hands trace the expanse of his calves which cage you, thumbing the damp hairs as you regard him in the dim lighting. 

As much as you want to agree, there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to take the easy way out when it comes to your emotions and your perception of the world. When had you gotten so lazy when it came to expressing yourself? It’s like you’d given up on living.

A half-life

“Selfish… _yes_.” You finally decide, before pausing and considering your next words. He waits, breath bated, and with an almost lost and torn expression. Almost as if he can’t decide who he wants to be at the moment. “I think that you just want to be loved…maybe that’s your weakness.”

Letting out a small snort, his smile is sardonic when he says, “It broke me— _love_. I don’t feel anymore. I don’t feel sad… I don’t feel scared… I don’t feel happy. I’m just here. But that’s my strength.” He declares looking suddenly more put together. “That’s why I’m alive.”

“So what happens to people like Rachel?” You’re more curious than angry at the moment. The thought of her downstairs, taking her top off for points only seems to sadden you. “How do they stay alive?”

He gives you a sharp look, taking your small foot in hand before pressing on the arch. “Rachel doesn’t love me, she doesn’t even know me.” 

“She knows enough.” You quip, and against your better judgment, sink deeper into his embrace and the inviting water as your nipples tighten in response to his ministrations. “ _I_ know enough.” You add when the fog clears from your head. 

“Hmm, what exactly do you _think_ you know?” His wet fingertips begin a slow ascent up the curve of your calf, tickling the skin and leaving a damp heat that seeps into your very being.

Retracting your foot from his grasp, you sink a little deeper into the water, wishing that you had a bottle of something, _anything_ , in hand. A deep breath. “I saw Rachel, tonight.” He quirks a brow. “I saw her, Negan—taking off her clothes for money. Because you tired of her and threw her away. Just like you’ll tire of me.” You’d meant to convey your words with an air of indifference, but your throat tightens and your words are no more a croak by the time you finish. 

You mean to kick him out of spite, hurt him, make him feel just a semblance of the pain that he causes others so carelessly when he grasps your ankle, pulling you beneath the bath water without warning. You come up for air, spluttering and giving him a fierce look that matches his own. 

“That’s her fucking choice.” He snarls.

“You call that a choice!” The perspiration dripping from the tile walls, the bead that hangs precariously from his lashes. Everything seems to be viewed with such clarity. As if you’d been baptized in a pool of consciousness.  “Don’t you get it? There are no choices!” For a moment you’re both taken back by the raw and sheer anguish in your words. You don’t recognize yourself. You’re chanting the words over and over, tugging at the strands of your hair—unraveling yourself. 

He leans forward, pulling you so that you’re straddling his bare lap. “Listen very fucking carefully because my patience is wearing thin!” He takes possession of your arms, forcing them behind your back so you have no choice but to stop pulling at your hair. Anyone else would have coddled you through your breakdown, but Negan was different. He showed no mercy. “I gave Rachel 2,000 points and a job in the kitchen—she made her fucking choice. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” You whimper taken aback not by the anger but the blatant hurt that floats around in his irises. As if you would think he could be so cruel. But wasn’t he? Hadn’t he given you every reason to think the worst of him? 

Not necessarily…

“Rachel made a goddamn choice…to spite me or screw herself over… I could give a flying fuck but that’s...her _-fucking_ -choice.” He repeats quieter, watching the clarity form in your expression. “You need to worry about yourself and pleasing your husband.” He growls, clutching you tighter. 

You want to protest, push at his chest and scream some more. It felt so good just to say what was weighing on your chest rather than suppressing it, for once. But he seems to have other ideas, tracing the path of water droplets that find their way between your breast before joining with the bath water.  His eyes widen, filling with mischief as his mouth traces the same path. 

You attempt to break his hold on you, fiercely ignoring the burn that has started in the pit of your belly. “Wait! I don’t want…”

“What, doll? My patience is wearing thin.”

“I understand...when you say you don’t feel. I haven’t felt anything in so long.” You start, thinking back to the moments when you actually did. Usually, they were the moments spent in his arms, post-coital bliss. “I want to…so badly…” You plead with him to understand, the look of agitation fading on your face when the tears in your eyes finally fall. “But I don’t want the first thing that I feel to be hurt…and agony. I don’t want to be like Rachel…or Margarett and Lucille.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“I’m not asking you to be.” You’re not sure what you’re asking. “I’m not asking for love or affection. I’m asking for you not to hurt me.”

He pauses, honest to God, considering your simple request. 

“Sweetheart,” He hasn’t used the word since he watched the life slip away from Lucille’s eyes. There’d been a cacophony of emotions in her eyes. Pain over losing the child she hadn’t even had time to love. Despair for betraying her sister and tearing apart her family. But more importantly, acceptance the second that Margarett had reached for her, her intentions clear. “Let me take care of you.” 

He means that. He’d been telling the truth when he said he didn’t feel anymore, but if he was being honest there was something that brought out the need to when he laid eyes on you that day on the highway. 

This was his punishment, he’d thought, staring at the small girl, no older than Lucille. He’d have to watch another hopeless, naive girl fall in love with his living corpse. But then you’d looked him in the eyes with that expression of disappointment and despair. He’d wanted to ask where you’d stolen her eyes from. 

Margarett’s eyes. 

“I won’t hurt you.” He swears with a ferocity that makes you flinch. “I’ll give you what you need.” He promises. What they needed, he mentally finishes. 

You’re unsure of who moves first but then suddenly you’re all tangled limbs and moans of encouragement. His hands move beneath the water, pulling you onto his quivering frame as you grasp at his hair, greedily sucking his tongue into your mouth as your lower halves grind against one another desperately seeking relief. 

He brushes the residual tears away. A brief kiss. The warm head of his cock finds its way to the apex of your thighs, pressing against your slick folds. You roll your hips, taking him inside you. 

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He kisses you so sweetly before his tongue is pressed against your pulse, drawing hazy patterns that make you drip with need. “Show me what you feel.” He chants. 

He so thick and you’re full of him, he’s brushing places within you that steal your breath, stoking the fire that aims to consume you. He doesn’t find much purchase on the slick surface of the bath, so you take control, grasping the edge of the tub as your pace quickens. 

Your breasts bounce, the tips hardened and heavy and he catches one between his lips, rolling the other between his fingers as you release a keening wale into the steamed room. The sound of your coupling is muffled by the slapping of the water that sloshes over the side of the tub’s walls. 

There aren’t any other words exchanged and you think that’s okay. Words would only shatter the fragility of the moment. So you pass along promises with the tips of your fingers and the arch of your hips, shuddering with your release. He presses closer, lifting his hips forward and almost painfully pulling you down on his pulsating length when he cums with a low grunt. 

“Why are you crying?” He brushes the tears away with his thumb, tasting the bitterness.

With a shudder, you relax against his chest as his pulse races beneath your ear. “Because I feel, Negan. I feel everything.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need to talk. As we wind down to the last ten chapters of Drinking Buddies, I must warn you...shit is about to get intense. Questions? Comments? Concerns? I’m here. x

“You alright, Y/N?”

Toast. Eggs. Bacon. A slice of ham. Your favorite. So why was it that you could barely stand the sight of the greasy plate of food? It churned your stomach in the worst way and you fought the pooling saliva in your mouth with a grimace. 

Looking up from your breakfast, you regard Vicky with a guarded expression. Was it that obvious? 

Yet, you plaster on a polite smile, inquiring, “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, sweetie. You’ve just been shifting a lot in your chair.”

Ah, that. You _had_ been shifting in your chair, you had bruises from Negan’s impromptu intervention from the night before and to pile more difficulties onto your plate, you wanted a drink. Badly. The urge seemed to crawl beneath your skin, taking on the semblance of a thousand fire ants. 

“I know what she needs,” Amber cuts in, dancing over with a tray of drinks from the bar. “Mimosas! Okay so they’re not technically mimosas because this hell hole doesn’t have champagne, but we’ll make do with seltzer.” She gives an exaggerated pout before placing a glass on your place setting. “One for you, girlie.”

It was hard to explain your alcoholism. You weren’t thirsty, per say, but still felt compelled to guzzle not only your drink but Vicky’s and Amber’s as well. It was irrational and you couldn’t shake the guilt, no longer numb to inner-workings of your soul. 

“Has anyone seen Sherry?” Victoria’s question earns her a sharp look from Amber and she instantly backtracks, instead, attempting to engage you in a conversation about your incident from last night. “So she took the implant out of your hand, Y/N? What are you taking for birth control?”

“Um,” It takes you a moment to answer her question. Her words seemingly traveling down an echoing hallway before they reach you, distorted and faint. “The pill.” You say, finally collecting yourself and recalling the small bottle of blue pills that Negan had dictated not to forget taking every day. 

“That’s good. You’re being safe.” She smiles encouragingly, pushing the food around on her plate a moment before the door opens, therefore, cutting off any other attempts to interrogate you.

Another time you could have appreciated her fresh face and friendly attitude, the fact that she was neutral territory also seemed appealing but your patience was wearing thin and nerves were short-wiring. 

Seconds later, Annabella comes breezing through the door with a shit-eating grin and into the vacant seat beside you, piling her plate high with eggs before buttering her toast. After taking a pause to sip some of her OJ, she looks up with a coy smile, eyes shimmering. “Oh, hello, ladies! Everyone have a good night?”

“You bitch!” Amber guffaws, leaning across the table to tug at her arm. “The nerve of you Annabella just walking in here all casual, I’m surprised that you’re still alive after that stunt you pulled last night.”

“Every arrangement is different, my dear.” As if on cue, they all raise their glass.   

You turn to address Annabella quietly when the others become absorbed in a conversation about their plans for the day. “So you’re still here?”

Her tinkling laughter makes you temporarily forget how uncomfortable you are, you can’t help but admire her for a moment. She had so obviously dealt with hurt in her past but instead of shouldering it like a burden, she wore it like a crown. As if it was something to be proud of. 

“Here in what sense, sweetie?” She laughs again, taking a bite of her food and you have a moment to study her appearance. A loosely fitted pair of jeans, a black tee shirt, and combat boots. “But yeah, do you really see Negan putting me on the main floor with the others?” She rolls her eyes. “That damn control freak. He’ll never let me go.” The unmistakable gleam of affection in her eyes portrays the bitterness of her words. 

“How was your night? Feeling better?” She curiously inquiries over the rim of her glass. 

You wrestle with the idea of telling her how you spent last night before settling on saying, “I stopped drinking.”

“Oh, sweetie. Thank you.” She breathes, gathering you in her arms. It’s not exactly the reaction you were expecting. Noticing this, she gives you a tender smile, grabbing your hand when she says, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?” You ask moments later in the hallway, your gait is clunky and unsure while she saunters beside you as your polar opposite, confident and seemingly carefree. 

“Negan’s office. I’ve got to get my assignment for the day and I’d really like it if I got to be in your company for a little while longer.” You readily agree, clasping hands with her as you continue to walk.

“I love you, Y/N.” You haven’t heard that often enough. 

With a small smile, you respond in kind, “I love you too, Annabella.”

“Please,” She waves. “Call me Bella.”

The request warms you in ways you can’t perceive at the moment but it seems suddenly more plausible to be happy. How could you not when someone loved you? “Now, when did you stop drinking?” She pauses briefly for your answer,  offering encouraging words of wisdom and sharing her concern in your changing demeanor.

However, you’re curious, if she’d suspected that you’d had a problem, why hadn’t she come forward? And had others seen the same thing?

She’s quick to squash your fears, assuring you that not everyone is so conscious and gives you the reason as to why she’d held her tongue. “I guess I thought it wasn’t my place. I’m not sure, Y/N, we all make our own choices and if we want to change that depends on us. But I guess that’s stupid, isn’t it? We made the same mistake with Margarett and personally...I feel as if the same thing happened with Lucy.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs daintily, absentmindedly brushing a piece of lint from her shirt. “Negan and Lucille’s affair went on for quite some time. I suppose it became obvious to Margie and she just…gave up, maybe.”

“Gave up?”

“Well, yes, I could never imagine being in that situation, Y/N. I think she didn’t want to admit what was so blatantly obvious. She was _okay_ most of the time, but she’d have days when she’d drink too much and miss work because she couldn’t get out of bed. Start fights with Negan when they’d come over for barbecues.” With a hefty sigh, she tugs at your arm giving it a reassuring squeeze. “And Lucille, she was always such a free spirit and a hopeless romantic…maybe if I’d…said something…reeled her in, maybe?”

“We’re all made of choices, Bella,” You rush to reassure her, hoping to give your friend a semblance of comfort like she does for you, “and maybe the worst ones are meant to somehow lead us toward better ones.” You desperately want to believe what you say. 

“Huh, that’s very intuitive. Where’d you get that from? A book?” She eyes you curiously, stopping at Negan’s office door, her hand poised to knock.

“Just a dream.” You answer simply. 

“They say dreams are just a way for your soul to speak to you.” She winks before knocking, leaving you no time to ponder her words as Negan calls out to her. 

“Bella,” He greets before his eyes land on you. “Sweetheart.”

Annabella quirks her eyebrow at his choice of greeting but doesn’t comment, rather, pulling you forward to one of the chairs in front of his desk before daintily resting on the edge of its arm. “Alright, boss. What’s my first assignment? A run to Hilltop? The satellite outpost? Oh, torture?” Her eyes glow with each suggestion until she’s practically bouncing in glee.

“Gate duty.” He cuts in smugly and you both watch Annabella’s face drop for a moment before her smile is firmly back in place. “Problem?” He taunts. 

“No, you ass. No problem at all.” She answers back the same smile on her face and it feels as if you’re on the outside looking in when they drop their bravado and share a small laugh. “I should go report for duty, huh? And I’ll need a coat. Come on, Y/N. ” She motions for you to stand and you do as much. 

“She stays.” Negan commands with the same smirk still etched in stone. He’d left shortly after your bath earlier this morning so you’re unsure of what to expect as his eyes glitter with poorly concealed mischief. 

“I’ll be fine.” You give Annabella a look of reassurance hoping hat your words and your facial expression convey some conviction. Last night, there hadn’t been many words exchanged but there had definitely been a shift and you felt that. 

“She’ll be fine.” He taunts and you want to hit him with something for obviously goading her. Their dynamic was exhausting.  

Giving you both a skeptical look, she flounces around the side of his desk, placing a quick kiss on Negan’s cheek, briefly unmasking him. Annabella whispers something in his ear before turning and wrapping you in a hug. She gives a small salute, calling over her shoulder to wish her luck as the door shuts behind her. 

“Sometimes I can’t tell if she loves me or hates me.” He allows his words to mingle with the air of warmth that Annabella’s presence usually leaves behind. Other than the few times she’d come to you in private and broken down, she was all smiles and you admired that about her greatly. Maybe that could be you someday? 

You don’t want to lie to him as you knew the torrid details of their past, so you just settle on something neutral. “I think her love for you overpowers any hate she has left.”

He considers your words, pushing his chair out and beckoning you closer. “I guess I’m just the selfish bastard who wants people close—even if it hurts them.” He admits as you approach. 

“We’re all selfish.” You shrug, picking at the edge of your knitted cardigan. The days were getting colder and you’d have to ask Lorelei if she’d be able to knit you a new one in a different color. 

“Hmm, speaking of which.” When you’re close enough he pulls you in by the waist, settling you on his lap where he begins to place open-mouthed kisses along your neck, tugging at your sweater for better access until it’s shed completely. “I had you this morning, little wife, but you are _seriously_ getting me excited.” His large hands take possession of your tiny waist before they dance beneath the fabric of your shirt, tracing patterns. 

“Um,” You see nothing out of the ordinary with your attire. A pair of black leggings and a baggy t-shirt. “This is what get’s you excited?”

He chuckles lowly in his throat, the sound mincing with a throaty groan when you shift in his lap, accidentally rubbing against his hardening length. “Looking at the outline of your sweet little nipples in my shirt gets me excited, sweetheart.”

It’d slipped your mind that this was Negan’s shirt, truly. You’d just wanted to be comfortable and lounge all day after the night you’d had. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts then as Negan’s dexterous fingers being to roll the peak of each breast tightly, pulling at the still sensitive flesh before tonguing your neck. You turn your head, tired of his teasing and take possession of his lips, groaning at the taste of his unique flavor and the feelings that float to the surface as he works your breasts over harder.

Your mind is deliriously empty and deliciously hazy in the best way. Maybe this was the distraction that you needed to prevent a relapse? It wasn’t the best or most reliable method but it’d keep you distracted. 

“Say I can have you, little wife.”

You nod, panting and arching into his hands as he flicks one bud before dragging his nail across the sensitive head. “You can have me.” You moan. This time you deliberately brush against the large bulge of his cock, seeking friction as the wetness begins to seep from you.

With a soft nudge, he slides you off of his lap and into a standing position between his spread legs, urging you to remove your bottoms. Hooking your thumb in the waist of your leggings, you make quick work of the garment, letting it pool around your ankles before sitting back on his lap. Only to release a startled gasp when you realize he’s pleasantly bare. 

“Gotta be quicker than that, babydoll.” Now it’s your turn to moan, the warmth of his cock sears into the meat of your thigh, teasingly brushing against the silk of your underwear. You desperately wish that you weren’t wearing panties and that you could just sink onto his hard length. The mere thought of him slowly filling you before what is sure to be a rough fuck has you pulling at your own nipples, begging for him to forgive your indiscretion. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He coos, skimming his nose along the delicate curve of your neck. He reaches beneath your gyrating ass to pull the damp crotch of your panties aside, exposing your overheated flesh to the cold air of the room. “Lift up for me.”

With rapt fascination, he lowers you onto his length, observing the way your small hungry body works to slowly envelop his angry looking cock. It’s something he’ll never get used, he observes, watching as your back stiffens and you release a stuttering groan. It sounds vaguely like his name.

“Good, sweetheart?” You gasp out an answer that he misses and when you’ve almost completely enveloped him into your tight opening, does he realize he’s been letting you do all the work. How selfish. Tugging his shirt off your small frame he begins his endeavors to touch and taste.

“Yes! You’re hitting my spot.”

“This one?” He shifts forward, the blunt edge of his member rubbing against your front wall. 

“Oh, yes! Yes, harder, Negan! Just a little harder.” You beg, enthralled in the feelings dwelling between your hips.   
  
“Such a beautiful fucking sight. Your smooth back, just a hint of your breasts teasing me,” He reaches around, brushing the sensitive buds for emphasis and the feeling sends you falling forward, pushing back on your forearms as he follows, fucking you harder against the surface of his desk.

The heat in your groin blossoms, the center of your focus sharpening to the place where you both join as Negan roughly tugs at your clit, rolling the bundle of nerves roughly between his fingers. You go over the edge, shouting your release without a care as he grunts in appreciation, lifting fully off his chair to press against your damp back. 

“That’s it little wife. So hot and fucking creamy,” His fingers dance in your release as he continues to piston forward, pushing you further into the paperwork he hadn’t bothered to move from his desk as his pace becomes suddenly erratic. 

“Wait, wait!” You gasp breathlessly recognizing that he’s close to orgasming. “You can’t come inside me again, not until the pill has time to take effect.” You figured last night was okay, seeing as it took the implant some time to leave your system, but now, you really didn’t want to push it. He releases a frustrated grunt, pulling you off his length and between his legs where you instantly take him into your mouth, trying your best to bring him to completion as you’d only down this once before.

With a roar, he releases down your throat and you swallow, ignoring the taste and cleaning him with your tongue until he’s panting and pushing you away. “A week,” He puffs. “That’s all I’m giving it, and then my dick and your pussy are best friends again.”

You can’t help but think, looking back, how distracted he seemed in the moment. 

When you’re both fully clothed and his desk has been straightened to his liking, he motions you back into his lap before pulling his chair closer to his desk and placing the ledgers you had noticed earlier, right in front of you.

Curiosity piqued, you lean forward observing the seemingly endless row of numbers that crowd every surface of the page. Chaos. “What is this?” You finally ask.

“This,” He places a large, solar-powered calculator in your arms reach before grabbing a pen, “little wife, is your new job. It'll keep you out of trouble.”

What he means is sober, you dryly think. Even so, you appreciate the effort. 

“This ledger is for the main floor, I’ve been noticing some errors which may or may not be intentional. There’s a trust system, so when transactions are made both parties record them under Lauren’s watchful eye.”

“So you want me to double check the numbers?” You’re husband’s just full of surprises, during his explanation he must have shifted while you were unaware as he now has on a pair of black reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“What?”

You can’t help but smile. “Nothing.”

He hums noncommittally squeezing your waist to resurrect a small laugh from you before continuing. “Lauren is dumb as shit. Let’s see if you can work your magic, sweetheart.”

He ends up taking you meticulously through ten rows of transactions, three of which you mark with a red pen before he moves you across his wide desk where you comfortably continue your work. He was right when he said this was mindless work and punching in numbers on a calculator was keeping your mind off your cravings. 

The knocking at Negan’s office door has him calling for them to come in, he barely looks up, when Dwight, Simon, and Joey enter. There’s actually a long stretch of silence as he works for several more minutes, completely disregarding their presence. Another power play. 

When he finally looks up, he leans back in his chair with a lazy smirk, a sharp contraction to his hardened pupils before uttering a single word: “Report.”

Clearly the leader, Simon steps forward, a curious glance in your direction before rattling off a series of stats about the Hilltop Colony. “I’ve tried talking some sense into Gregory but any longer under their leadership and they’ll no doubt tank.”

“We don’t want that.” Negan agrees, pondering something for a moment before lifting a single brow. “Is it cold in here, sweetheart?”

“Um,” You’re momentarily taken off guard by his sudden address of your presence and abruptly you have four pairs of eyes on you. “No, not really?”

He gives a tender smile at your obvious discomfort before turning to Simon. “You heard her Simon, come on,” He goads. 

Your eyes briefly meet Joey’s across the room before you watch with rapt interest as Simon slowly unzips his cargo vest, revealing bruising and several bite marks along his neck which you presume trail lower judging by the look of some of them. 

“Hot damn,” Your husband slaps the palm of his desk, _hard_ , before leaning in for a closer look. “Someone’s been visiting the pussy parlor. Anyone I know, Simon?” 

Simon shifts uncomfortably before giving a feeble description of some red-head named Valorie. Your husband doesn’t look convinced and neither does Dwight who leans forward to get a better look. 

“D, what you got for me?” With predator like quickness, Negan’s attention fixes on Dwight. 

“We’re looking at a good harvest this week. Just in time for winter.” He references opening his own ledger you hadn’t realized was in his hand. “We’re still having trouble on the main floor, sir.”

“The problem?” He gives you a small wink before eyeing Dwight. 

“I haven’t figured that out yet.” He scratches his head obviously frustrated. “Maybe Lauren’s skimming off the top?” He offers. 

You decide to interject with your own speculation. “Actually, Negan, I think that some of the older sellers on the floor are being short-changed. Do you mind if I go down there and ask them myself? It’ll keep me distracted,” You add, hoping that would be enough to sway his decision as he regards you with a calculating expression. 

“Alright, little wife, but Fat Joseph will be in charge of escorting you to and from the main floor. God forbid something happens to you, am I right?” He chuckles darkly and you feel a momentary pang of concern for Joey who gives you a reassuring smile. 

“Thank you, Negan.” With a tentative smile, you reach across the desk to squeeze his hand. “You won’t regret this, I swear.” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard topics ahead. Fair warning.   
> Questions? Comments? Concerns? x

“I can’t believe I did that.” Your sob of utter disbelief is cut short by another wave of bile that sends you heaving into the toilet. Your bathroom reeks of sickness, the heavy presence of guilt weighing over you like a dark cloud in the small space. Your knees ache. Your soul quivers. 

From beside you, Joey softly suggests, “Maybe we should get the doctor?”

“No, please.” You’re not above begging. If you had it your way, this would only stay between you and Joey, no one else could ever know about this.

About your relapse. 

“I’ll be fine.” You croak, ignoring the dubious look that Joey gives you as your words are cut short by yet another lurch of your stomach that sends you heaving into the toilet. 

Your stomach twists in the worst way. It was like someone was cutting you from the inside out and wringing your intestines all at once. You wanted your brother and Annabella. Hell, even Negan, so that they could wrap you in their arms and tell you that everything was going to be alright. 

Serves you right, you would never have any of that. Instead, you’d have to marinate in your guilt and stupidity, endearing the pain alone. 

“I found you,” Joey speaks quietly as your sobs begin to lessen. “If I’d been too late, you would have choked on your own vomit and died.”

“I didn’t want to die.” You croak pitifully. “I just wanted a little taste.” 

You close your eyes as the tears come again. Of course, it hadn’t been a little. 

It’d been over a week since Negan had given you the task of managing the main floor ledger. You’d not only solved the problem but gone about constructing a new system of labeling that would deter wrongdoers. The factory’s people had loved it and you’d taken to visiting at least once a day with Joey as your shadow, to hear the other concerns of the people. It didn’t hurt that you helped boost the economy with your generous purchasing, the value of a point had skyrocketed the first several days, leaving everyone in good spirits. You’d even gotten the sweater you wanted from Lorelei.

That’d also been around the time Jeb had started propositioning you to buy his product. Grade-A moonshine, he called it. It had tempted you from day one, but you refused, hell-bent on your sobriety. What you hadn’t counted on was his persistence. He demanded to know why you’d bought from the other stalls but not his, it was unfair to him and left his granddaughters abhorrently unprepared for the upcoming winter.

He had a point. What would it hurt to buy the product and have it dumped down the drain? Or maybe gift it to Negan for having patience and treating you with care?

Subconsciously, you release a mangled laugh, startling Joey as you consider the many lies you’d used to trick yourself into buying the alcohol. After sending Joey on a hastily drummed up errand, you’d scribbled Kaleb’s name in the transaction ledger and fled to your room. You knew it was wrong but the euphoria and the rush of the moment had managed to flush out the bad emotions for the time being. 

After the first sip things had gotten a little hazy, you hadn’t been drinking to get drunk when you thought about it now. It was almost greed that you’d felt, you wanted the entirety of the large bottle’s content for no other reason but to consume it. 

That’s when you’d spiraled.

There’d been a strong pressure on your chest and suddenly Joey’s frantic face was above you, scooping the vomit out of your blocked airway with his fingers. 

You’d been telling the truth. You didn’t want to die but maybe it would have been easier if he’d been several minutes late. You were nothing more than a burden to some and a painful reminder to others. 

“I’m fucking pathetic,” It seems as if your guilt was taking you on in waves, each time it receded you thought you were better. But then you’d just end up hurling into the toilet and sobbing while Joey watched helplessly. 

“It’s not your fault, Y/N.” With implicit cares he helps you to your feet, allowing you to you rinse your mouth before you succumb to your dizziness and sink to your knees, resting your head against the cool porcelain for comfort. 

“Yes, it is. I’m weak. I couldn’t even stay sober for more than a couple of days.” Your tears blur his face, warping his concerned features. 

“It’s not uncommon for people who were dependent on alcohol to relapse.” He smiles sadly, considering his own words. “It’s actually the first step and a strong reason as to why most stay sober after a binging stint. You’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

You shudder, nodding along to his words. It was coming back to you in pieces but you clearly remember staring lifelessly at the ceiling while you gradually lost the ability to breathe. It was terrifying and heart-wrenching and you were refusing medical assistance so the pain and the gravity of this incident would no doubt condition you for the future.  

“You seem so knowledgeable,” You comment, watching him from his position reclined against the bathtub. 

“My father was an alcoholic with a nasty temper.” He confides. “Whenever he was upset he’d spare my sisters and take it out on me.”

The thought saddens you tremendously, even after his father’s death he couldn’t escape the abuse of others. 

He catches your expression, waving you off. “Don’t feel guilty, Y/N. Negan may tug me around but its no different from the others. Dwight is a different story, though... I guess I’m used to it.” He stands with a heavy sigh and you panic.

“Where are you going?” 

“You need coffee to sober you up and something to settle your stomach, I think.” He helps you stand and to his credit doesn’t shy away from your vomit covered shirt as he places you on the edge of the tub, where he adjusts the faucets and helps you remove your shoes. “Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

“Joey, I’m so sorry.” You scrunch your nose in distaste, feeling the familiar prick of tears begin again. “I’ve treated you like shit and that wasn’t fair to you. You’re a person, not a slave. You don’t have to help me. I-I don’t deserve it.”

“Nonsense, what are friends for, huh?”

He leaves without another word, closing the bathroom with a soft click. Your clothes suddenly feel claustrophobic and the smell of bile is quickly threatening to send you back to the toilet. So you disrobe, tipping a crap load of bath salts and bubble bath into the mix in hopes that it’ll wash away the smell. 

By the time Joey comes back, you feel marginally better. 

“Come in,” He peaks his head in before shielding his eyes and apologizing, he’s holding a small mug and you beckon him in, much to his qualms. “I’m completely covered and I don’t want to be alone, please.”

Your heart melts at his next statement. “I’m gay if that makes you less uncomfortable.” He offers hesitantly. 

He gives you the mug before taking his previous spot against the tub by your legs, deliberately turning his gaze in another direction. You appreciate the effort even though it is not needed and tell him as much, sipping at the bitter liquid as your mind swirls with the information he’d so casually dropped in your lap. 

“You mentioned your father was an alcoholic,” You say attempting to broach the subject lightly, “what happened to him?”

“He got help and I forgave him.”

“That simple?” 

“Hell no,” You both laugh at his expression before his tone sobers and he continues, “there were a lot of moments like this one. A lot of tears and sleepless nights. But I saw how much my refusal to forgive him was hurting him and his recovery. So I did what I had to do…even if I wasn’t completely healed.”

“You’re very brave,” You comment, hating that there isn’t more you can say to mend his ache. 

“I loved my father and when he was diagnosed with cirrhosis…eventually succumbing to liver cancer…I felt guilty for waiting so long because in the grand scheme of things,” His words become stoic as his face contorts in an effort to reach for a mental revelation, “what I wanted didn’t matter.”

“What did you want?” You ask, curious as to why he’d shun his feelings so quickly.

“For it to be like none of it had ever happened. To turn and run as far away as I could in the opposite direction. Wishful thinking, huh?”

He’d shared so much with you, it felt more than right to share with him.

Something you hadn’t talked about in years.

“I’m sorry about your father, Joey. I understand that love…and how it can hurt.” Swallowing thickly, you place your mug on the edge of the tub. Water sloshes as you wrap your arms around your legs, trying for a semblance of comfort.

“I had this favorite diner growing up as a kid— _Smiley’s_. They had these sprinkled pancakes and they’d draw a smiley face in whip cream. Every Saturday without fail, my father would take Kaleb and me to get pancakes…and we’d sit in our favorite booth.”

“Sounds nice,” Joey cuts in wistfully, “the only thing I got on Saturday’s was a bloodied lip.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” He assures you. “Just a joke in poor taste. Continue, please.”

“Well, years after we were on the road, we still hadn’t found a stable community. It seemed like every time we had something good it would be ripped away from us and more people would die. We just wanted some good…I just wanted some good, for a while at least. One day, my father and I came across an abandoned diner while we were out scouting and I made an offhanded comment about missing Saturday mornings at Smiley’s.”

“Hey, calm down, Y/N. Take a second.” He gets up quickly, leaving the room before coming back with a glass of water. You hadn’t realized you were shaking so violently until the glass of water is in your hand. 

“No— _no_! I’m tired of not feeling, I have to,” You gasp, clutching your chest as the memories begin to play behind your eyes against your own volition. You revel in the pain, absorbing the burn. You knew now, it was better to hurt than run from the pain because it was futile and destructive. “He said we should go into the diner, just for old-time sake. So we sat in a booth and pretended…we laughed… We didn’t notice them until it was too late and I thought for sure it was going to be me…” The words seem to hurt as you stumble through them. It is chaos that tears through you, leaving copious emotions in its wake. Grief. Hate. Disgust.

He grabs a towel wrapping it around your quivering frame, lifting you from the tub as you claw at him, crying into his shoulder. “What did they do, Y/N? Say it. Let it out. You need this.” He urges.

“They held me down and I watched as they took turns with him.” He clutches you tighter as you writhe in agony, images of your father’s broken and bloodied body as they’d violated him, seared into your skull. He’d died that day, that very moment. “I felt so guilty, Joey. I never told anyone—not my mother, not Kaleb. He told me not to. We never talked about it and when he hung himself a week later…it killed me to watch my family suffer. I couldn’t feel after that day...how could I? And I don’t think he wanted us to wonder…he was hanging only a few feet away…”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He chants the words as you cry. “And I told you I was gay, you must think—”

“Don’t,” You cut him off sharply before he continues spouting any more foolishness, “the men who raped my father were fucking monsters and cowards. Their sexuality had nothing to do with it.”

“Force of habit, I guess.” Your only response is to hug him harder, taking pride in the fact that you hadn’t lost yourself completely in the pain of your past and were able to comfort your friend. 

“Look at us,” Joey laughs suddenly and you can’t help join in, agreeing, when he says, “we’re a mess.”

You settle beside him, shoulder to shoulder, against the tub as you both fall silent, contemplating. “Now that we’ve shared our darkest secrets with each other, should we paint our nails or…?” You’re only partially joking, suddenly at a loss for words.

He nods mockingly serious, “We’ll pop some popcorn and share our latest crushes. I’ll get the ball rolling, Billy from the kitchen.”

“Billy?” You’d gotten to interact with the shy, dark-headed man a handful of times. “Why don’t you ask him out?”

“Come on, Y/N. Be reasonable. I’m picked on as it is. I don’t need to give them another reason.” He quiets for a moment and your heart breaks when he adds, “Billy just doesn’t deserve that.”

In an attempt to cheer him up, you change the subject, hoping to rouse a laugh from him. “Well, I suppose I should share my crush, bet you’ve probably guessed my answer. I mean there isn’t much of a choice when...”

“I think Negan loves you.” He blurts, cutting you off. With pursed lips, you silently question his sanity. “Fine, let me rephrase— _if_ he doesn’t already, he will. He’s different around you.”

“Because I remind him of his past,” You point out. In some sick, twisted sense, you knew deep down, he viewed you as his chance at redemption. You just weren’t sure if you minded or not. 

The coffee had done its job and sobered you some, but your conversation with Joey had left you emotionally exhausted, leading you to rest your head on his soft shoulder. 

“Do you even think people are capable of love anymore?” You knew going into this that opening up about your father’s assault would leave you hurting but it was long overdue. Instead of numbing yourself to the pain, you allow yourself to feel. The animistic grunts of your father’s attackers seem to echo repeatedly in your head. “I’m not so sure…” You confide in your friend. 

“What do you feel when you’re with him?” He asks out of pure curiosity, having witnessed on a number of occasions how Negan seemed to gravitate towards you. You, on the other hand, remained a mystery to him. In a way, a chess piece, that moved where it was told.

“I don’t love him. I’ve only known him for a few months, _but_ ,” He coaxes you to go on when you hesitate, “after my father died I became selfish. I wasn’t myself and I was only partially living. Then there’s Negan, he’s selfish, and I understand that to a certain extent. He’s only trying to guard away what’s left of his soul. He gives me things, _yes_ , and maybe to some that means a lot, especially now.” You shrug hopelessly, trying and failing to articulate your thoughts. “He says he wants to take care of me and I think that’s as far as it goes. I appreciate that he at least cares. I feel as if I almost owe him, actually.”

“Isn’t that’s enough?” He shrugs, your head rolling with the gesture. “There aren’t movie theaters and romantic restaurants to exactly go to on date night. That form of romance is dead, I think.”

“So companionship and stability—?”

“May _be_ what constitutes as love. He treats you differently, that’s been established, but have you noticed he always keeps you close? Have you ever seen the other wives spending time with him in his office?” You shake your head ‘no’ before he continues. “Has he once said anything about the way you dress?” 

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” You cut in, affronted. 

“Nothing if there wasn't an already ‘pre-Negan’ approved uniform for his wives.” He rolls his eyes at your disbelieving expression. “You might as well be in another category. I’m quite sure he doesn’t view you in the same way he views the others.”

“I’ll consider it.” You answer dryly. 

He’d given you a lot to think about. Maybe in his own, fucked up way, Negan _did_ care for you. Maybe another time you could ponder this, but with the guilt of your relapse and the memories of your father’s death, you found your eyelids drooping. 

“Let’s get you in bed,” Joey suggests. “I’ll come and wake you up in time for dinner.”

With his coaching, you change into a comfortable nightgown and slide between the covers of your bed, moments away from unconsciousness when a thought occurs.

“Hey, Joey.” He pauses at the door, turning in an inquiry. “I just wanted to know. Were you ever the same…after your father…” You wanted to know if there was any hope for you. 

“It’s not easy and it changed me some, I think.” He chuckles, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I’ve never gotten drunk—can’t and won’t ever do it—but I’d say I’m still the same old Joe. Just a few more scars.”

“Good.” You mumble, tugging the comforter tighter around you to stave off the cold as your eyes shut. 

Tomorrow was another chance. 

One you’d try not to take advantage of...


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually just finished writing the last chapter (chapter 30) before the other six in the middle. Like what?!?!? Genuine tears! I can’t believe this is ending. Questions? Comments? Concerns? I’m here. x

**…so they told me I had bipolar depression, which basically means that… My lows are the equivalent to falling from the summit of Mt. Everest…before I reset…and I’m falling all over again. It seems I’ll never stop falling.**

**[long pause]**

**I feel as if… [deep breath] I feel…**

**I’m not sure If I want to feel, Eliza. There is simply too much…**

**Mom found my CD’s in my car and she took them to the therapist claiming that because I refer to my self in conversation as a separate entity, I must be crazy. Joan laughed and told her the only one that needed to be hospitalized** was her **. I think I’m beginning to like my therapist…**

**I’m not sure, Eliza, but ‘feeling’ may as well be a double-edged knife. Guess it just depends on how you hold it… Whatever—I’m feeling a little melodramatic at the moment if you can’t tell. How about a little Florence + the Machine?**

_Looking up from underneath, Fractured moonlight on the sea_

_Reflections still look the same to me, As before I went—_

“Sweetheart, why are you crying?”

A number of reasons flash by in a blink of an eye, but they don’t seem right for this moment—if that even made any sense. Tugging at your earbuds, you allow the world in. 

You allow him in. 

“I’m crying,” You taste the words as they come, bitter and stringy, “because I miss my mother and she won’t even look at me. She thinks of me as nothing more than a whore but… I don’t know, that’s not true. Everything I did. I did for her.” You mumble quietly into your ledgers, a stray tear that falls onto the numbers of the page, turn red from the ink.

He seems taken aback by your blatant honesty, considering you hadn’t always been so forthcoming about your feelings, you don’t take it personally. It’s interesting and almost comical that you’re able to identify the exact moment he switches gears. “What did you do for fun, before this?” 

“I mentioned once that I liked to dance,” You shrug, setting your pen down and propping your head upon your arms to study your husband across the desk. “It was everything, the movement, and the music… I could lose myself in _me_ , you know? W-what are you thinking?”

“One, how sexy you look in my t-shirt.” You roll your eyes, chuckling at his cheeky smile. “And two, that we should go dancing tonight.”

“Dancing?” Even you can’t ignore the unmistakable longing in your tone. “At the bar? Really? You’re not busy?” He always held meetings at night.

“We’ll relocate.” He nods once, peering over the rims of his glasses, considering. “That is if you’re ready?”

“I’m ready, husband.”

“Negan.” At your questioning gaze, he simply adds, “Call me Negan. I’d like to be on a first name basis with my wife.”

You’re okay with that, the title had never really stuck with you and was always like an afterthought. But the idea that he wanted to be on a ‘first name basis’ was making you feel things you weren’t sure you wanted to feel. “Alright, _Negan,_ thank you for taking me dancing later.” Moving to stand at his side a quick kiss turns into something more when he moves his head, capturing your lips in a slow, stroking kiss. 

He gazes at you expectantly when he pulls away, tugging at a strand of hair, before inquiring in a tone that liquifies your insides, “Dinner, too?”

Suddenly shier and unable to make eye contact, you promise, “It’s a date.”

One that you seal with a kiss. 

* * *

The usual crowd of dancers that frequent The Basement Bar part like the Red Sea as you pass the threshold on the arm of Negan. They stare at you with morbid curiosity. 

Maybe it’s the way he looks at you and the way you look at him that makes for a picture? Maybe it’s the blood red dress that fits you like a glove, hugging your breasts and cinching your newly curved waist?

Either way, you can’t seem to care. It’s only him. That’s as far as you’d like to see tonight. Dinner had been a wonderful affair, just the two of you beside a dying fire in his office as you’d fed off of each other’s plates. The food had been yummy and maybe not so coincidentally, it’d been your favorite, chicken parmesan. Negan was clearly putting in the work, and for once, there seemed to be no strings attached. 

With a hand on your lower waist, he guides you to a small lounge in a darkened corner, taking a seat in a chair before pulling you onto his lap. Almost on cue, a small posse matriculates, Simon, taking the seat on Negan’s right while Annabella takes the others.  

“Bossman,” Annabella greets, before leaning forward to place a kiss on your cheek. “Y/N, you look _fuck-hot_.”

It seemed strange to see her in a black dress after being conditioned to it in the beginning, but if anyone could blur the lines and make it look easy it was Annabella. 

“Eyes off my woman, Bella.”

“Oh, hush, Negan.” You chide, though you’re secretly pleased with his possessive behavior. “There’s only you.”

“Damn straight.” His grip tightens. 

“What about me?” Kaleb mockingly pouts, throwing himself into the chair across from you. “Suddenly you’re married and I’m not the main man in your life no more?”

“ _Any_ more?” Annabella corrects, sipping her drink with a roll of her eyes. 

“Oh, brother.” You gush, almost giddy with the feeling of having so many people you loved in one place at once. It seemed too good to be true. “You’ll always have a place in my heart.”

A faint charge of electricity runs along your spine as Negan’s fingers trace the dip in your dress. His breath warm against the skin of your neck as he leans closer in the loud room to whisper in your ear. “Thought you could use the distraction tonight.”

“Thank you,” Taken aback by the kind gesture and unsure of how to express your thoughtfulness, you place a slow kiss on the corner of his mouth, deepening the touch when the shudder of his form reverberates against your mouth. You lose yourself in the kiss, the only thought the firm grip on your hip that slowly travels higher with each stroke of his tongue.

“Alright, alright.” Kaleb loudly calls, shattering the moment but not the tension that seems to drape you like a winter coat. “Can I go the rest of the night without seeing you two pawing at each other?” He gives you a pointed look, though he seems pleased by the gradual change in your demeanor over the past several weeks.

You can tell Negan’s a bit taken back though, pleased by your answer when you chirp, “No promises.”

“Not that we’ve had our little family reunion. Can we get serious about our shit?” Simon asks, pointedly. “Gregory still hasn’t made up for the last two collections he’s missed. We need a plan—and a fucking good one.”

“Hmmm,” Negan rolls his neck, seemingly considering Simons news, though you no better if the glint in his eye is any indication. “Kaleb switch seats with Simon.” He finally orders.

“The fuck, Negan?”

“I want Kaleb on this shit. I’m tired of your fucking games,” He mockingly sighs although his posture has gone rigid. Kaleb glances unsurely between the two, caught in a not so friendly crossfire, “and your little back and forth with Gregory? That shit ends— _tonight_.” He commands which must kick start something in Simon’s brain as he prepares to switch seats with your brother. 

Negan brushes your ear, whispering, “A lot of suspense there. I don’t think he knows how much.” You blink, turning to stare at him owlishly. Did he know?

“Maybe I should give you all a moment... A drink, perhaps?” You ask, turning to Negan in an inquiry. 

Patting your ass, he helps you stand, lingering for a moment as he speaks. “Thanks, baby. Tell’m my usual.”

“What the fuck is this?” Simon’s words reach you before the music can drown it out, outraged but morose, all at once.

“ _This,_ Simon, is you reading the room and getting the fucking message.”

With a shudder, you leave the lounge, climbing the small staircase to the bar where you squeeze onto an empty barstool; catching the eye of a familiar redhead.

“Hey, Vicky.” You greet. She leans over the bar to give you a brief hug, her auburn locks piled high into a messy bun as she simultaneously juggles a tray of drink orders. “How’s the new gig?”

“Way more fuckin’ fun than being a trophy wife all day,” She slyly eyes Ed, who’d you come to know was the head bartender and in another life had owned a distillery, “and the view ain’t so bad either. Oh, thank you, Y/N. None of this could’ve happened without you.” She gushes. 

“No problem.” You assure her, still uncomfortable with the control others thought you had over Negan. Victoria had pulled you aside some odd weeks ago and asked if you could join her and Negan in his office. Little did you know… “Can I have Negan’s, uh, usual?”

“And for you?”

Giving her a tight smile, you decline. “Nothing for me.”

“Hmm, good for you.” With a wink, she slides the glass into your hand. “How’s Amber?”

Your expression is all she needs.

Leaning in closer, her expression suddenly ashen, she confides in you, “I can understand Sherry. She really went and fucked herself over on that one… But Amber…she’s a spoiled brat with a mean streak the size of a fuckin’ football field.” She says, her southern accent more pronounced as she rambles on.

“What do you mean?” You wonder aloud, curious as to why Victoria would speak ill of her. They always seemed so close.

She smiles tightly. “Nothing, hun. Just that some people seem to think they can have it all.” With that being said, she slides a tumbler into your hand, the glass filled with an amber colored liquid and two ice cubes before wandering down the bar to take someone’s order. 

Her expression leaves you wondering. Why is it that the other girls stayed when they so clearly had ways out. Was it a fear of weakness? That they couldn’t survive on their own? The thought, though harsh, would explain the myriad of directions that the other wives had gone off in. Annabella and Victoria were strong-willed. They both knew what they wanted and went after it, and for that, Negan had respected their decision. Their counterparts, Sherry and Amber, seemed content walking the fine line between life and death. But then there was Rachel, caught in the gray area, who seemed to want to go down a destructive path even when she’d been given a second chance. You couldn’t admit it out loud, but you had more in common with that girl than you cared to admit. 

“Oh,” You let an uncharacteristic squeal as a change in song catches your attention. Annabella seems to share the same sentiment as the band switches to a slower, more sultry beat. “I love this song.”

“Dance with me, Y/N!” Grabbing your hand as soon as you hand Negan his drink, she pulls you into the crowd of dancers that come to life beneath the dim lighting. The black lights turn your dress a bright fluorescent red as you begin to sway to the underlying tempo.  

_Lay where you're laying, Don’t make a sound_

_I know they're watching, Watching_

Mid guitar riff, the feeling of Annabella’s soft curves are replaced with a much harder surface. One you recognize instantly _._

_All the commotion, The kiddie like play_

_It has people talking, Talking_

Turning to press your cheek against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat threads through the rhythm of the blaring melody.

“You look like sin,” He mouths the words into your skin, placing a searing kiss behind your ear as you continue to move against him.

Bodies press in on all sides, the club air hazy from non-compliant smokers.  You’ve never felt more alive. You let yourself feel. Feel the bass and the vibrations from the speakers as the singer croons into his worn-out mic. Feel Negan’s hands as they wander up your dress, the motion made easier as you twist and sway your hips. _Feel_ the hemline bunch up along your upper thighs as he cups your sex.

_You, Your sex is on fire_

_Consumed, With what's to transpire_

“I need you,” You draw his head closer to your level, still so far away, even in your heels so that he can listen. His fingers edge along the crease where your sex meets your upper thigh, brushing softly, before reaching the damp folds. He draws in a sharp inhalation, one that you _feel_ before you’re thrust towards him. The curve of your ass brushing along the outline of his rapidly hardening cock. “Please.”

“Fucking tempting, too.” It’s a heady filling that threatens to spill over in the pit of your belly, this delicious taught feeling that only he can evoke. He spins you quickly, drawing you deeper into the crowd and a dimly lit corner of the bar so that your pressed chest to chest. Away from prying eyes. “What are you doing to me?”

What is this club doing to you? It’s as if the music is carrying your heartbeat from your body, replacing it with the steadily flowing vibrations that carry through the packed room. Just this once you want to forget and let go of the burdens that you constantly carried. 

Your tongues tangle, a wild groan ripped from his throat when you palm his cock through his jeans before dipping your fingers into the waistband of his jeans. 

_Hot as a fever, Rattle of bones_

_I could just taste it, Taste it_

“Taste me,” Dipping your fingers below your dress, you drag your index finger between your folds, quivering with the intense look he gives you as you raise it to his lips. He sucks it quickly into his mouth, tongue laving as he presses you closer, a leg wedging between yours. 

You're a mass of tangled limbs as he sucks your essence from your finger, the feeling of the suction, tight and wet. You shamelessly grind against his leg, gasping into the chaotic space of the club as you hang on by frayed edges. 

_And you, Your sex is on fire_

_Consumed, With what's to transpire_

“Negan,” Tugging persistently at his belt loop, you guide him out of the club and down an empty hallway, unsure of where you’re going until you reach a small alcove adjacent to a broom closet. “I need you. I can’t wait.”

It seems unfair to poke the beast, the past several weeks after your relapse he’d been so unusually patient with you; choosing to spend your time together dressed and getting to know each other. He’d been tame but you wanted more. You wanted to be fucked like an animal. You wanted what he’d given you before. 

“Touch me?” The air is chilled against your swollen, wet flesh when you bare yourself to him. He stops his slow prowl only to take in your puffy lips peaking appetizingly from beneath the blood-red fabric.

“With pleasure, sweetheart.” He consumes you with an animalistic groan, swiping at your folds with his hot tongue before sucking your stiff clit into his mouth. He urges you to voice how you feel as he presses several fingers forward, curling and twisting. You lower yourself firmly onto his face as your release quickens, groaning at his effort. 

“Cum for me, wife,” He growls and the feeling of him shifting suddenly has you glancing downward. His length is hard and angry in his hand as he pumps himself in time to your gyrating hips. The thought that he’ll be fucking you soon has you crying out and jerking onto his tongue as you erupt, a fistful of his hair your tortured prisoner. “Enough of that.” He stands to his full height, pressing you against the wall tighter as he reaches for the halter neckline of your dress, baring your breasts

“Right here?” You gasp. The thought that anyone could come across you here, needy and prepared to be fucked by your husband makes your head spin. You can still hear the music from the bar, only fainter, but the effect still lingers. The feeling of him slamming his thick length inside your dripping sex has your toes curling in your heels as you grit your teeth, willing your body to relax around the large intrusion. 

“Fuck, you’re so big, Negan.” He stills, pelvic pressed tightly against yours, allowing you a moment, carefully watching your face as he gives an experimental thrust. You pitch forward, hissing as his hands dig into your thighs tighter— _harder_. “I’m okay. Fuck me like you want to.”

He wastes no time slamming into you repeatedly as your breasts bounce with his intensity, he catches a nipple with his mouth, groaning into the skin as he moves to the distant beat of the clubs music.“This is what I can’t get enough of... Your sweet tits, your tight ass—” He groans tightly when your inner walls clench around his stony cock, loving his filthy words. You missed this. You wanted this, maybe even figured you could take the good with the bad from now on. 

“I love when you f-fuck me like this...”

“Yeah?”

A particular well-placed thrust has you gritting your teeth and clawing at his back. “Y-yes.”

“I fucking love this pussy, sweetheart.” You tremble, burning under the intensity of his glare as his fingers dance towards where you’re joined, rubbing firm circles around your hardened clit as he pitches you over the edge. He savors your screams, the guttural groan that leaves your quivering throat. The way your thighs feel against his bare waist as your inner walls clench and pulse around him.

But more than that, the look in your eyes when you fall apart in his arms, an array of emotions that all seem to fly by in an instance. It isn’t _her_ eyes, he realizes. It’s just you. He is surrounded by _you_  in this moment. 

“I love... _you_.” He says it not like a statement but a realization that scares him with its intensity, slowing his movements and edging you off a third release. 

You’re frozen for a moment as well, unsure of what to do with the feeling he so abruptly hands you. Maybe it’s cowardly but you choose to temporarily distract him, taking a page from his book. “Then fuck me like you mean it. Show me.” You command.

_He does._


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the warnings above. Graphic depictions of sexual assault in this chapter. Questions? Comments? Concerns? I’m here. x

“He’s been waiting for you.” The waitress— _God_ , you remind yourself, seems happy to see you. The usual sneer that mares her face is questionably absent. You wonder if creating something with good intentions only for it to turn on you and become malicious is the cause of his constantly soured mood. She cocks her head and points,“The corner booth.”

Like you don’t already know. Breezing past her, you’re no longer afraid of what may or may not be. Your only thought? Your father was waiting for you, had been expecting you for some time. His car had been in the parking lot the very first time you’d dreamt yourself here.

“Oh my god, Daddy!” You’re utterly relieved to feel the warm weight of his body collide against yours when you’re pulled into his eager embrace.

“Pumpkin, it’s about time.” He softly admonishes, the familiar lull of his words bringing tears to your eyes as he pulls you into the booth. “I’ve got your favorite.”

“Pumpkin pancakes,” You laugh, staring down at the plate before you.

“With a smiley face,” He points at the obvious whipped cream face adorned with rainbow colored sprinkles. 

“Oh!’ You squeal leaning in for a closer look. “You only let us have sprinkles when you have…bad news.” His expression says it all. 

“Not necessarily bad news, but things you might think you’re not ready to hear… Words that are long overdue.” He assures you.

“Your accident?” You barely get the words out as your throat constricts, making it harder to breathe. 

“Among the few.” He nods. “You’ve carried it inside you for a while. That must’ve been hard and you were so young...” 

“I had no one to turn to,” Your fists clench tightly, agreeing with him as you fight back tears, “and I feel so guilty. I never told Mom… A part of me thinks she deserves to know, Dad.”

“They knew, Y/N.” He assures you looking nonplussed as he waves to someone in the parking lot, holding up several fingers before he turns to face you with an astonished look. “Honey, there was blood on my shoes…on my jeans…” His voice fades and for a moment, he fades. 

Completely horrified of him leaving you prematurely, you cling to him. “Why didn’t they say anything?”

“What could they say, Y/N?” He seemed to be asking, _really_ asking. For a moment, falling out of the facade of your father. There’s a brief duration where you’re staring at _you_. That saddened you. He was nothing more than a figment of your sullen mind. Of repressed trauma. 

It suddenly dawns on you, the whipped face of your pancakes now distorted and unappetizing. Like this conversation. This was your realm and conversation only went as far as you’d _let_ it—with the information you _knew._  No matter how deep it was buried. “Sh-she hates me, doesn’t she?” It all made sense. “It wasn’t because of what I did with Negan… She thought I could save you—from _that_?” Images flash wildly behind your eyes, blurring with your carefully constructed realm and you’re there, in that place again. Your father’s muffled screams and their animalistic grunts. 

“Daddy, I could _never_ save you from that.” You cry into his shoulder, desperately wanting him to understand and for the clone of your father’s bloodied body to disappear from the diner floor.

His attackers rise and take a seat at a booth nearby, waving to the waitress who hands them each a menu.

He nods, a stoic expression with lips hard pressed, staring too at his mangled body. “There wasn’t anything you could do, Y/N. She made her decision a very, _very_ long time ago. She needed a place for her pain to go.”

“And— _what_? Her daughter was the next best thing?” Your mother had turned cold and distant towards you when you had needed her the most. You’d been foolish to assume that it had been circumstances. She’d been selfish and cruel. 

“I never said it was the right choice, pumpkin. Dig in.” Never one to disappoint your father, you cut into the steaming cakes, taking a bite and tasting nothing. 

“So,” He begins after a moment of silence, wiping his mouth on a napkin before lightly wrapping an arm around your shoulder, “I hear congratulations are in order. You’re married, are you not?” He clarifies. 

“Not under the most romantic circumstances.” You admit.

“He said he loved you.” He chimes in, cutting into your rambling.

“He did,” You confirm, enjoying the weight of his arm. You missed him. 

“But you didn’t say it back?”

“No, I guess I’m not sure how,” You admit, mildly affronted when he begins to laugh. “He says he loves and I believe him…but what if he hurts me?”

“You and I both know you’ve loved him for a while.”

“That doesn’t make the possibility of _hurting_ any less painful.” You point out, wishing that Kaleb could be here.

“Why are you so afraid of hurting?” At your mystified look, he moves to speak, only to be interrupted by the waitress who sets down two glasses of coke. 

Her expression appears annoyed as she/he begins to speak.“I’ve spent the entirety of my creation within your consciousness watching you live a half-life. You’re here, instead of out there! You have to understand, Y/N. In life, we all hurt! But what you do with it—what you stand to make of it—sets you apart from the others.”

Your father quickly cuts in. “You will make mistakes, you will fail, and you will hurt but you will also  **live**. You can turn that pain into something else, pumpkin.”

“What are you saying?” You demand, still not understanding. This almost sounded like a goodbye.

With a heavy sigh, your father breaks your heart. “You can’t come here anymore.”

“W-why not, Daddy?”

“Because when you’re here, you’re missing out on living _and_ feeling.” He looks at God for support before turning to you again. “I love you, pumpkin. That hurt you feel? It means your scars are healing. But most importantly…it means you’re alive. Now, are you ready to say goodbye?”

Your dream is suddenly jostled and there’s a brief distortion in your vision, you’re looking at your bed sheets and a dimly lit view of Negan’s broad back. Clenching your eyes shut, you will your father’s image back to the forefront of your mind.

“Let go, pumpkin.” He looks towards the parking lot. “Your ride is here.”

“I love you, Daddy. Kaleb—he loves you, too,” You cry, feeling the tears dampen your pillow. 

“Promise me you’ll open your eyes and make the right choice, pumpkin.”

“I will,” You promise aloud, feeling the bed jostle as you open your eyes. You grasp Negan’s arm so quickly, he jolts backward and onto the bed. 

“I love you,” His eyes, heavy with sleep, widen when they notice the tears that pour from your own. “I love you because there isn’t anyone that has ever made me _feel_ what you make me feel and I was purposely ignoring that because I don’t want to hurt anymore. But I know now that you can't have one without the other.” 

There is so much you want to say, so much you want to dwell on. That maybe his so-called ‘love’ doesn’t match the same depth as yours. Maybe yours isn’t even deep enough? But it all melts away the moment his arms slide around your waist, pulling you closer until you can’t decide where he begins and you end. In no way are either of you perfect. You are both selfish and you’ve made so many wrong choices, but the pain of your indiscretions have put you here—in each other’s arms.

“I love you, sweetheart.” And that’s enough for him.

“I love you.” It’s more than enough for you. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Never, never.” He chants, breathing the promises into your skin as you slowly sink onto his turgid length, breathing out a soft moan the moment his thick head fills you. You’ll never get tired of this fulling ache. He presses commitments between your breasts, tugging at the tips until they lengthen and you cry out into his warm mouth, stealing his heat as the one between your hips begins to stir.

He grips your waist as you climax quickly, pressing kisses against your dampened hairline as you shiver in his arms.

“I’m not perfect.” He rolls you onto your back, the feeling of his chest against your cushioned breasts makes you both groan in need. “But I’ll try for you, sweetheart.” His hips rock faster, pushing your legs onto his shoulders as he eats your cries, loving you harder into the mattress as his hands shake. They clasp yours, intwining as you float higher. The feeling is unfamiliar but takes on the resemblance of an old friend as it embraces you both. You feel loved, you realize. 

He kisses the tears that spill from your eyes, panting in his aftermath. “You have this look in your eyes…”

“Hmm?”

“Let me protect it.”

The next few hours float by in a haze, you reconcile and reconnect, attempting to put together older jagged pieces with newer, polished ones; and deciding to mutually discard the ones that won’t fit into the bigger picture. He takes his time, carefully navigating his past before explaining where you fit into his present: ‘ _When I saw you, I was reminded of the shit I put her through, yes. I was a selfish bastard and I still am, but when I see you—now—I feel as if there’s still time for me to change. It’s not guilt… It’s—shit—it’s me making a conscious decision to do something worthy enough to make Bella proud of me. It’s me wanting to love…and not let you go…’_

You could live with that. His words had been heartfelt and honest which had spurred you into another round of passionate fucking. He’d taken you against your door and once in the tub before you’d both collapsed into a heavy sleep. If only it didn’t have to end…

“Do you have to go?” Watching him dress tugs at the strings of your heart. You want so badly to explore his body and mind. To just stay in bed and talk like you’d been doing only moments before. “You hardly ever go to Hilltop.” You comment, watching in disdain as he tugs on his boots. 

“I’ve let Simon fuck around for far too long,” His own face shows signs of regret but you both knew he couldn’t stay in bed all day. Wishful thinking. You felt lighter, however, so getting through several days without him wouldn’t be so hard. “But when I get back—we’ll start this off right, hmm? Just us.” He clarifies at your confused expression.

“You don’t mean—?” Shaking your head, you pause mid-sentence, considering the authenticity of his words. It was Negan. Of course, he was. He always meant what he said. But this was something else, this was huge. “Are you sure?”

“It’s only you, sweetheart.” He draws you in by your opal necklace and you go on your knees towards him where he captures your lips in a slowly heated kiss. “Just _you_. That is if you’ll have me?”

“Promise you won’t hog the sheets?” You cheek, unable to stop yourself from smiling into the kiss until you’re smiling so wide that he can’t continue, so he just settles on placing them on your jawline. He draws the skin of your neck into his mouth, softly suckling. You know it’ll leave a mark. Possessive bastard.

“No promises.” He pulls away before—to your great displeasure—dressing you. 

“What are you doing?” Your finally able to ask when your head escapes through the neck hole of the sweater he layers over his t-shirt.

“Thought you might wanna say goodbye to a few others before I go.” He hedges slyly, making you laugh with the sheer _ridiculousness_ of this moment. Never had you thought, for once, you’d love the monster that had stumbled across your group that faithful day on the highway. Though whether it counted that it had been Simon that had patronized and killed one of your own before calling on Negan, you were unsure. 

“I love you.” You say, absolutely delighted when his eyes gleam and he leans in to steal a kiss or two.

Maybe more. 

An hour or so later, still before the sun has risen, you trail after Negan. Following him past the Sanctuary’s main entrance, and into the busy courtyard. 

“Y/N!” Annabella skips forward, throwing her much taller frame onto yours.

“Careful,” Negan barks, steadying you both.

“Oh, sorry!” She pouts, making a show out of a much fainter hug. “What crawled up your ass this morning?”

“Watch it, B… Before I kick _your_ ass.” He retorts.

“I’d like to see your old ass lift a leg higher than my waist, old man, _Negan_ …”

Rolling your eyes at their exchange, you leave them to their bickering, seeking out your brother only several feet away. He’s propped against an old truck, fiddling with a knife which he promptly puts away when he senses your approach. Twin intuition and all that.

“Look at you.” He eyes you critically, more so, the impressive hicky that peaks out from the neckline of your sweater. “Good night?”

The dreamy sigh you release has you both looking away uncomfortably. Maybe it was too early for you to be up and running around? In a huff, you move forward, eager to say goodbye. “I love you. Be safe, please.” You kiss both his cheeks, smoothing the lapels of his jacket and drawing his scarf tighter around his neck. 

“If all goes well you’ll never have to worry again.” He mumbles somewhat cryptically before lifting you and spinning in an arch. 

“Let me down. Jackass,” You laugh startled, beating at his chest and from a distance, resembling the picture of a childhood lost. 

“There’s my sunshine,” He smirks, looking into eyes he’d come to know so well. He knew them well, considering they were the same pair that stared back at him in the mirror every day. Only, he reflects, there’s something there he can’t quite put his finger on. Though you seem whole and that’s enough for him. 

Giving everyone one last kiss, you head back to your room, hell-bent on several more hours of sleep, wishing that time could speed forward to have Negan in your arms once again.

But seconds bleed to minutes, chasing after hours that melt into days. 

“Any word from them?” Sherry asks over breakfast on the third day, she looks glum and you match her sentiment. Only, you suspect, she’s missing a certain foul-mouthed sociopath instead. 

“Mark said they heard from them last night, they’ll be a few more days. Something about a redistribution of power…” From across from you, Amber cuts into her omelet, waving off Sherry’s concerns as her eyes flicker across an old Vogue magazine. 

You decide to pointedly ignore them both, withdrawn after the rough morning you’d had. It seemed as if several weeks later your body was still suffering from withdrawal and you’d been accepting of these symptoms, figured it was the price you’d have to pay for a life of sobriety but the nausea and vomiting were getting old…

“…but that just leaves us a better window of opportunity. Right, Y/N?”

“Hmm, oh yeah.” You nod along to Amber’s ramming as Sherry excuses herself from the table. It was odd how sullen the common room was. Maybe you could talk Negan into donating some of the music into the library downstairs when he got back? It seemed a waste for this room to someday go dormant. You’d certainly spent your fair amount of time in here and were hoping for a new change of scenery. 

“So you’ll go?” Amber asks you looking suddenly excited and you reel back, unsure for a moment what you’d accidentally agreed to. “With me and Mark—and David, of course!”

“David?”

“Yes, silly, his cousin. They're expecting us soon.” She rambles on not paying much attention to the way your nose scrunches in concentration. It would be something to do…especially with Joey gone. You missed the company. “We only have a small window and we’ll have to hide in the backseat with some blankets over our head but—oh, it’ll be so fun! Think of it as an adventure.”

“When would we get back?”

“No more than an hour or two,” She bats away your concern with a flick of her wrist. “Mark tells me they’ve found a secret hideaway close by. How romantic, right?”

“I’m not sure.” You attempt to backtrack. “I’ve been sick these past several days and I shouldn’t—”

“Please, Y/N! I promise that if you go once, I’ll never bug you about this again.”

How could you argue with that? Besides, it’d be one of the last times you’d get to hang out with Amber. You doubt she’ll talk to you after she hears the news of Negan’s impending cleaning of house. 

“Ok, just this once.” She’s already squealing before you’re able to get the rest of the words past your lips.  

“Let’s go look at my closet for options! I want to look _hella_ cute for our double date.”

How was it that you were regretting this already?

 

* * *

 

 

“You want us _where_?”

“In the trunk.” David’s green eyes glimmer unnervingly as you shift beside Amber’s vibrating frame.

“No freakin’ way! _Mark—_! Tell your asshole cousin I just curled my hair,” She whines throwing in a foot stomp for good measure. 

“It’s just for like five minutes, babe.” He attempts to pacify her. “Look, we’ll put you in the back seat, too.”

“You promise?” 

With a smacking kiss, she lets lose an un-ladylike snort, one that she quickly covers with a giggle, pushing you into the car as she goes. Though your mildly disturbed at the need to be practically gagged and concealed, you go without much protest. The world becomes momentarily muffled. The vague outline of Amber’s excited face and the rocking of the car become your companions for a short while until a muffled yelp of excitement catches your attention. “Freedom!” 

The blanket is abruptly ripped from over your head. A smattering of the sun’s rays hitting you briefly in the eye as you adjust to the brightness. You hadn’t realized how dark the factory was in comparison.

“Amazing isn’t it?” You follow David’s gaze and realize you’re on an abandoned road hugged closely on each side by sprawling fields.

“Yeah, it is.” You agree.

“Mark, baby! Put on some music.” He dutifully does as Amber commands fiddling with a CD as the beginning of an electric guitar riff begins. 

_Living easy, living free, Season ticket on a one-way ride_

_Asking nothing, leave me be_

“Fuck yeah!” David cheers hitting the roof of the Jeep before fist pumping the air.

_Taking everything in my stride_

_Don’t need reason, don't need rhyme_

_Ain't nothing I would rather do, Going down, party time_

“I love this song!” Amber cheers. “Turn it up!”

The excitement and the music gets to you, allowing you to shed your anxiety like a second skin and join Amber when she pokes her head through the frame of the roof as you all sing along to the chorus.

_I'm on the highway to hell, On the highway to hell_

_Highway to hell, I’m on the highway to hell_

“Not so bad, huh?” She shouts over the music and you wave off her obvious gloating, raising your hands in the air as it whips through your fingertips. 

This wasn’t so bad and you hadn’t been in a car for so long. You missed this. Sooner than you’d like, Mark turns off onto a dirt road, the car rocking and jerking as Amber clutches you while joining in with your laughter. 

“We’re here!” He announces cutting the engine. 

The air is still cold, the earth caught between two seasons. You wished you wore a thicker pair of leggings. The partially melted snow seems to only preserve the chill in the air.

“Where is _here_?” You ask.

“About a mile or two from the factory. David and I found it one day coming back from the satellite outpost. Wrong turn,” He explains, turning to help Amber down before whispering something into her ear that makes her giggle. She reaches into the back and takes one of the blankets as you hop down, refusing David’s hand.

“Mark and I will be back in a couple of minutes.” She says slyly, before following him through a cluster of bushes and promptly disappearing.

“Guess it’s just us then,” David comments while reaching for the other blanket as you slowly trudge into the clearing with your bag in tow. 

He spreads the small blanket and you thank him quietly as you pull several items from the bag that you’d packed, pointedly ignoring the chill of your ass from the ground and his unnerving stare.

He attempts to break the silence. “What are you listening to?”

“Oh, nothing. Just some music.” You answer with a sigh. 

“I like music,” He offers a small smile as he scoots closer, reaching for the other earbud.

“It’s private,” As you yank the cord, you turn your body slightly in the opposite direction, hoping that he’ll understand and leave you to absorb some sun. 

“Sorry.” He chuckles and with a frustrated sigh, retreats to his side of the blanket where he lays on his back. “You know they're probably fucking by now, right?”

Shifting uncomfortably at his crude observation, you continue to flip your book.

“I hear Amber’s a screamer.” He offers out of the blue. 

“Hmm…” You inconspicuously finger the volume on your player until you can’t hear him, spending the next several minutes uninterrupted. 

Until you are. 

In a sickening turn of events, you find yourself pressed against the hardened ground of the forest floor. Releasing a pained gasp when the grip on your neck slams you against the unforgiving earth with a dull thud before he repeats his actions several more times. “Can't ignore me now, huh? I wonder if you’re a screamer, too?”

“What are you doing—?” The words are labored as the minute you’re able to catch your breath he climbs atop your struggling body, lowering his groin against the softness of your inner thigh. 

“What am I doing? That’s a good question,” He coos. “ I just thought...you and I could have some fun.”

With an outraged shriek, you claw at his hand, fighting the dizzying feeling that blossoms from the lower curve of your skull. “No!”

The wetness trickles down your neck unnervingly warm as he enjoys you struggling beneath him for a moment. “I’ve been watching you. Look at me!” He roughly grabs your chin, squishing your cheeks together and you have no choice but to watch cautiously as he seems to contemplate something.

“You’ve never had anything on the side. Why is that?” He leans closer, loosening his grip to rub his cheek against yours as you whimper a plea. Maybe if you screamed loud enough it would alert the others? Or would it only serve to anger him more? “No ones ever caught your eye or is your cunt just too stuck up? Too good for me?”

“I like Negan.” You weakly protest.

“You _like_ being a teasing little whore.” His hands travel down the column of your throat where they pluck your necklace from beneath the layers of your top half. “What will it take to get between your legs, Y/N? A shiny stone?” He pries them apart roughly, his sharp nails unforgiving as he presses his hardness again your lower half.

“Do you feel that?”

“Get off!” You screech.

This wasn’t the time to shut down. But the feeling was there, you could practically feel a pitiless part of you ready to submit. But the thought of being used so violently, only to be discarded and violated. That tore at you. “Don’t be such a fucking tease. Just relax, baby.”

“Don’t call me that.” You weakly protest.

It’s useless, you realize with an air of defeat. 

He too big, too heavy. Your stomach heaves as his hands pull at the waistband of your leggings, the sickness you’d been holding at bay empties onto his shoulder. With sick pleasure, you notice that some had even gotten into his mouth. 

“You stupid bitch!” The sharp pain blooms across your cheek, the force behind his slap turning your head sharply to the left. Your vision swims, blurring around the edges and threatening to take you under. That is until the small outline of a familiar face pulls you into focus mid-spiral.

“Amber?” You whisper. Her troubled expression deepens when you call out to her across the small clearing where she’s partially obscured by several branches. Can she not hear you? “Help me.” You mouth, trying again in vain. 

Amber, with a slight grimace, looks you in the eyes before returning from whence she’d come. Your stomach plunges in the pit of your belly as David’s hand triumphantly cups your sex, unaware or uncaring, as you call out to her retreating back. The smell of his cologne overwhelms your senses as you threaten to be sick again.

Turning your head heavenward you release the ungodliest shriek that’s ever left your mouth. It resonates in your belly, wilting your heart as it dies in your throat, becoming a howl. 

You will live.

You chant your father’s words until David is threatening to cut you with a knife if you don’t quit. 

“What’s going on?” Your head turns sharply as Mark comes thundering through the trees, without Amber. 

“He forced himself on me,” You spit already imagining the ways that Negan would make him suffer as David stills above you.  

“She doesn’t mean that. Do you, Y/N? We’re just having a little fun,” He calls a bit louder before whispering in your ear, “Say a word to Negan and I’ll make sure your friend Annabella doesn’t make it back on a run.” He smiles triumphantly when the bravado in your eyes dims. 

The bite of metal briefly cuts into your skin as he cruelly wrenches your opal necklace from around your neck, with a squawk you renew your struggle. “Collateral,” He whispers threateningly. 

“What the fuck, David! Get off her!”

“You worry too much, man!” He laughs, doing as Mark says. 

“We were just having fun, weren’t we Y/N?” Brushing off Mark’s help, you stand, touching your stinging cheek. When he hands you a bottled water, you take it, gargling quickly to get the taste of sickness out of your mouth.

“Can we just go? Please.” You beg. Mark watches, clearly troubled as David brushes the vomit off his leather vest.

“You won’t…say anything, will you?” He tentatively asks, unable to meet your eyes. “Umm, where’s Amber?” 

You sniffle pathetically, wrapping your arms around yourself, ignoring his question as the tears begin to fall. 

“Not sure,” David shrugs looking unbothered and there’s a moment where you wish you had a knife so that you could dig his eyes out. Make him suffer the way you suffered. You hadn’t felt this angry since you’d found your father hanging.

“Here I am!” Amber sings, there’s a moment where she glances at you briefly before abruptly turning away. “Just went to freshen up. What did I miss?” Mark quickly fills her in on what he’d briefly seen and she has the audacity to feign surprise. 

“She won’t,” Amber quickly reassures him. David’s eyes flash briefly and the promise of hurting Annabella weighs on your chest. “You won’t say anything. Will you, Y/N? It’s just a silly misunderstanding. You have to understand,” Her voice lowers, “she’s never done this.”

Without another word, you trudge towards the Jeep and the others follow suit. The ride is painfully quiet and you think, if it weren’t for the radio that Mark switches on as a way to deflect the tension, they’d be able to hear the sound of your heart breaking. 

_I'm on the highway to hell, On the highway to hell_

_Highway to hell, I’m on the highway to hell_


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brief recap/reminder: David threatened you in the forest, in front of Mark, and took your opal necklace as 'collateral'. He also threatened Annabella's life if you were to say anything about that day to Negan. x

“Negan?” It’s late when he slides beneath the sheets of his bed, the silk catching the chill that rests on his skin from a late night arrival.

He assures you with a yawn. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s me.”

You relax taking a moment to catalog his embrace, tasting the emotions that his arrival brings with him. Comfort. Warmth. A’lotta love. He’s been gone almost a week. More than anything, more than any other emotion is need. You need him.

“I missed you,” You allow a few tears to fall, knowing that the blanket of darkness that befalls his room is your ally for the night. You’ll have to find a way to explain the bruises, but that could wait.

“Missed you, too.” He shifts again and you hear the rustling of clothing drop as he leaves the bed briefly to undress. “Among other things,” He slyly adds, dipping into the waistband of your panties while the other hand works deftly at the shirt you’d gone to bed in. His shirt.

You become impatient. “No, I need you now. Just lift it.” He lifts the shirt ever so slightly, displaying your breasts, while two fingers toy with your clit until your whimpering into your pillow. He presses his face into your neck, feeling your throat quiver with another hoarse cry as his digits speed and curl. You soon find yourself releasing onto his finger. 

With a huff, you kick the offending scrap of fabric down around your ankles until you’re deliciously bare against Negan, the smooth skin of your ass brushing against his lap.

It’s been only three days since the David incident. Upon your arrival back to the factory you’d showered until your skin had been scalded and promptly moved into Negan’s room. You figured that if David were to try anything there’d be no way that he’s encroach upon Negan’s personal space. You were safe, yet living in fear.

“How much did you miss me?” You ask Negan, your voice suddenly stronger, more aggressive as you come down from your natural high.

He cups a breast, rolling and brushing the pad of his thumb against the sensitive nub as he nudges a knee between your parted legs. His hardness snug and now against the cleft of your ass. “Sweetheart, are you tired?”

Gasping quietly, you peer into the darkness wondering if Negan has lost his mind. “No, why?”

“…‘Cause you’ve been running through my mind all damn day.” He cheeks sending you into a fit of laughter. Your breast jiggle lightly in his grip from the motion. “Fuck me.” He breathes, craning his head to stare down at you. Only the silhouette of his face is visible.

“What?”

“You are just so _goddamn_ beautiful.” He sounds almost in awe.

“Oh, stop. You’re full of shit.” He can’t possibly see anything.

He snorts, chest shaking in silent laughter. “No shit,” You can practically hear his eye roll, detect that dimple of his pucker ever so slightly. “Now let me get this out before I fuck you nice and proper, sweetheart. I’ve said it before. I’m not a great man. Blood and violence, all that _bullshit_. That’s who I am.” He rambles.

“But I see past it,” You interrupt, cupping his face as you pull him against you, fitting his lanky frame against yours as you stare into the place where his eyes should be, “and we’re not perfect. Sinners without a choice and all that _bullshit_.” You’d spent the past several days alone thinking, pondering.

“The shit you say sometimes, Y/N,” He shifts forward, slowly running his hardness through the slickness on your thighs, thoroughly coating himself before he’s poised at the entrance of your sex.

“Yeah?”

“It’s simple,” You groan in tandem when the head of cock slips is, “but profound. You’re wise, Y/N, and I fuckin’ love that about you, sweetheart.”

“I love your brutal honesty,” You gasp. He feels so much bigger like this, pressing against you in shallow harsh strokes as he pinches your left breast.

“Mmm, what else?”

It takes you a moment. “Uh, you’re no bullshit approach.” Your impromptu spanking comes to mind and you suddenly itch for the feeling of his palm against your warm skin.

Without warning, there’s a rush of cold air against your lower half. He’s there, groin pressed tightly against yours as he comes to straddle your right leg, the other now rests over his shoulder. “That’s right. I take what I want.” He agrees, his fingers skimming the length of your thigh and your heart flutters when he presses a delicate kiss to your inner ankle.

The chorded muscles that lie beneath the skin of his thighs feel almost sinful beneath your fingertips as they explore, coming to rest at his hips where you urge him to move. “Are you going to _take_ me?” You can’t resist teasing.

“Yeah, baby.” He leans forward to briefly swipe his tongue across your lower lip. It’s messy but passionate, he misses your mouth a second time before giving up and leaning back on his haunches to tongue your toes.

“Holy shit!” A zap of electricity shoots from the tip of your foot and straight to your core. The feeling of his wet tongue weaving between your toes is surprisingly sensual. “More,” You pant. “I want more.”

It’s quite an experience to make love in the dark. It's spiritual, only him and his touches. The feelings he invokes. A slow swipe of his curious wet tongue. His fingers dancing to places that make your breath hitch. As he fucks you, that boiling point begins to tip over. It burns you, encircling you in a melting embrace.

“Touch your breasts, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” 

“Oh…oh…fuck…” Your head lolls against your pillow, gripping your breasts tightly as your skin begins to dampen, a wet slap filling the room.

“Speak,” He growls reminding you of his prior command.

“I’m burning,” You mewl.

“Yeah?” He’s so deep you feel as if you might choke, tilting your pelvis upward as his fingers dig into the soft skin of your belly. “Tell me more, Y/N.”

He’s searching, _searching_ for something that has him circling his hips and rocking deeper. It’s a sensuous dance that has you reaching for him to feel the way he moves and loves you. “The way you touch me—oh god, Negan—it’s sinful!” That’s it, you think, you’re done for. The rapturous groan takes on an animalistic quality as it leaves your throat. Negan’s slick finger slips just past the tight ring of your anus and he brushes against a spot that has you practically convulsing and jerking off the bed.

“Jesus, _fuck_ —!” From somewhere above you, Negan releases a strangled moan. His length shuddering and contracting as his warm release floods your insides. “I can’t ever tire of you, baby.” With a sigh he rolls off your slack frame, tugging you against his chest.

It’s on the tip of your tongue. Your husband is always so ever present and all powerful. You’re sure that if you were to just say the words, your problem would be eradicated in minutes. You imagine that he wouldn’t even leave his bed to do it. Just a snap of his fingers and a sharp whistle.

“Negan?” Here it comes.

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” You sigh, closing your eyes and willing the outside forces that wish to do you harm, away from your mind for the moment.

* * *

 

The Sanctuary’s main floor is buzzing the following day with its usual chaotic air of energy. Merchants from all stalls, shout and coerce, luring innocent bystanders to their products with the promise of a good deal while some of the younger kids scream and chase each other around the market. You lay in the midst of it all, observing from the outside a transaction at Lorelei’s booth.

“That’s your fifth purchase of the day.” You note, marking it down absentmindedly on the ledger in your hand.

“All thanks to you, my dear.” She leans back on her rickety stool, fingers flying in a dance that mesmerizes you. She’s spent the last several days trying to teach you to knit, yet your fingers just don’t seem to be getting the message. Lost in transition, maybe. With a heavy sigh, you set down the book and return to your own— _er_ , creation—if you could call it that.

“What are you knitting by the way?” You ask her with brows furrowed. The mess in your lap was _meant_ to be a scarf for Kaleb. How and when had you missed a stitch? “It’s getting a little warm for sweaters, no?”

Though you appreciated yours greatly and wore it more often than naught. The factory tended to run a bit cooler at night, no matter the season.

“Baby blankets,” You looks up from her knitting to see she gives you a cheeky wink. “When it’s colder folks tend to turn to each other for warmth.”

“Lory, you genius!” You scoff, joining in her joyous laughter.

“That’s economics.” She asserts. “Supply and demand.”

“Hmm, still so smart.” You muse aloud, eyes wandering along the factory crowd to where Joey makes his way in your direction, a pickle in each hand.

“Oh, thank you. Joey, you’re my hero!” Upon reaching you, he promptly gives you one before munching on the other. The zesty taste dances across your taste buds as you take another large bite. “These are Martha’s best batch, by far!” You hum between bites.

“Fresh from pickling.” Joey agrees, mouth full of a pickle.

“I’ll have to see if she’ll be able to have two jars for me next week. Do you think that’s too soon…” You trail off when it’s clear that Joey’s no longer listening to you or staring at you for that matter. “What is it?” You ask training your head to see what has him so enraptured.

“Pay them no mind, dear.” Lorelei grabs your hand with your own, shaking her slightly grayed curls and rolling her vibrant blue eyes. The buzz of the main floor has now died to hushed whispers and the occasional murmur. “Good riddance if you ask me.”

You surpass interested and tumble head first into curiosity. “What are you…”

“Y/N, don’t…” Joey starts, laying a hand on your shoulder the moment your eyes land on her.

“No, just,” Holding your hand out, you take several steps towards the door, “let me go to her. I need to do this.”

You take quick, jilted steps as you intercept her path. She’s leading a small group, no more than five and their all saddled with bags bulging with supplies. This wasn’t necessarily an odd sight, sometimes people left the Sanctuary for one reason or another after getting clearance. But she wasn’t other people…

“Mom, you’re leaving? And on the day that Kaleb’s conveniently not here…” You scoff in disbelief wiping away several tears that spill over. “You’re a fucking coward.”

“Y/N…” She phrases the word cautiously as if she’s afraid of it. “I just want to leave.”

You nibble on your lip, inquiring lowly, “Without me?”

She dismisses your question with a loud scoff, “You seem more than comfortable here. Stop playing the victim. Honestly, Y/N…I thought I raised you better than that and to think—”

“Shut up!” Her bag tumbles out of her grip and you realize with a sudden bout of angst that you’re the one ripping it out of her arms. “It’s my time to talk, for **once**! If you want to leave—fucking leave!”

You’re unsure of what you’re doing and what point you’re trying to make. Only that you’re digging through her bag while the entirety of the Sanctuary has gone unnaturally quiet.

She doesn’t move as if she assumes there’s more.

She assumes correctly.

“But if you’re leaving, you don’t get to take a piece of me with you.” With shaking hands, you unzip her duffle bag. “Medicine? That’s fucking mine, especially after **everything** I had to do to get it.” She flinches at your accusation.

Joey stops only several feet from where you're crouched and looks reproachful when he asks, “Y/N, what are you doing?”

You can’t help but laugh in his face. “I’m doing what I should have done a fucking long time ago. Purging my life of her.” You point at your own mother for the first time noticing the individuals in the small group of people behind her. None from your old group, you notice a bit smug. There’s a small teenage girl that stops herself from running forward. Towards your mother. She’s similar in your height and build. She vaguely reminds you of yourself. That hurts you the most. “After everything I did for you—all for you, Mom!”

You’re still tearing through her things, yanking books and more medicine from her bag. You wonder what fuck session constituted a whole bag of pills. Bandages? At least you were worth _something_ to her.

“You’re just like your father.” She spits, disgust in every pore of her face oozes grossly and disfigures the women you thought you knew. “Weak.”

For a moment, you’re at a loss and your body is not your own. You can see it so clearly, launching forward. Ripping at her face and clothes until she’s a writhing mess. A puddle of ill-conceived hate. For one **irate** second, you ponder the idea of killing her.

But then he’s there.

“Fat Joseph,” Negan’s forearms cage your middle until you’re tight against his chest, “see the group out. Make sure they have a clear path to the highway.”

You can’t bear to witness the moment that your mother walks out of your life. You figured you’d been dealt enough hurt in the past to know that sometimes it’s best to move on from it before it can do any more damage than necessary.

His arms keep you caged, coupled with the eyes of several hundred people, you feel as if you’re drowning. “Let go of me.”

“Sweetheart.” He tries to comfort you.

You don’t want to be comforted. “I said let go!”

With a regretful sigh, he does as you ask. You’re embarrassed. Your face burns and you know for a fact that they’re all still watching.

 _Walk, don’t run!_ You’re feet disobey you and soon you’re running out of the main floor and down an unmarked hallway. There aren’t words to describe the way you feel and no one can possibly understand you at this moment. The need to be alone and surrounded all at once. It’s best if there’s distance.

The next corner you round has you stumbling across a scene from a trashy romance movie. Mark and Amber locked in a sloppy embrace. They break away when your footsteps reach their ears.

“Don’t mind me,” You mutter bitterly, attempting to skirt around them but it's futile when Mark sidesteps quickly, blocking your path. He exchanges a glance with Amber over your shoulder.

“Wait,” Amber protests, “stay a bit and, _uh_ , chat.”

Eyeing them both skeptically, you ask, “About?”  

Your tone is short and cutting, they both flinch. Good. Seeing them was bringing up feelings you didn’t need to feel at the moment. Absentmindedly, you consider ripping out a piece of Amber’s perfectly curled blonde hair.

“The other day,” Mark hedges, rubbing the back of his neck. “We still good?”

“Good?” You scoff loudly advancing towards him. “You’re asking if I’m _good_ , when the both of you are a **constant** reminder of my assault. **Fuck off!** ” You shove him, surprised when he actually stumbles. “No, really, it wouldn’t be enough to watch you bleed, Mark.”

“Y/N,” Your name doesn’t even fully leave her lips when you make a decision, spinning on your heal and slapping her so hard across the face that your palm stings.

“You know what, Amber.” Bending forward, you're leveled with her ear until Mark pulls you back roughly by your arm. “I’m feeling better already.”

“You didn’t have to hit me!” She cries pitifully.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Negan rounds the corner, others in tow and you’re relieved to see him as he approaches. Annabella, Joey, Dwight. They follow after him each with a different expression on their face.

It happens in what feels like slow motion. 

In the same second that Negan rounds the corner, Mark pulls you closer and before you can protest, slants his lips across yours. The footsteps in the hallway slow as you push him off you and turn to Amber who still clutches her face, but looks at Mark absolutely heartbroken.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Annabella’s the first to break the stunned silence, her eyes flicker to Amber for a moment before landing on you. “Y/N?” She begs and you note she has a hand on Negan’s bicep, holding him back.

There are a million things you want to say but maybe the truth is in order. How can you possibly explain _this_ without the truth? You start hesitantly, pleading with your eyes for Negan to understand. He stands at a distance. “Negan, I—”

“We’re in love, sir.” Mark steps forward, tugging you backward. “I’ll be man enough to admit it and take the consequences. We all have to make sacrifices.” His eyes briefly meet Amber’s.

The vein in Negan’s forehead seems to bulge significantly as his eyes fall to where Mark has a hold on you. “You expect me to believe this **bullshit**!” His neck strains with the effort to make his voice a thunderous roar that echoes and carries down the short hallway. “Sweetheart, c’mere. You’re telling me this whole time, you’ve been spreading your legs for the pretty boy over here?”He scoffs.

You’re speechless. What if David were to find out about this? He’d made it sound as if he wouldn’t be the only one involved in his potential assassination scheme. Negan couldn’t possibly be there all the time to protect Annabella. He’d lock her up and she’d be unhappy again. It’d all be your fault.

“Negan,” Joey, bless his soul, tries to cut in but it’s useless. “You really think that _Y/N—_ out of all your wives is the one with a boyfriend? C’mon, _anyone_ but her.”

Dwight’s head turns so sharply in Joseph’s direction that he takes a step back. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“ _Sweetheart_ , is this true?” You see it so clearly in his eyes, he doesn’t believe Mark and if you were to say it right now, out loud, this whole situation would be cleared. There’d be ‘I love you’s’ and a sweet apology. You wouldn’t mind apologizing, admitting your wrongdoings. 

You should have never stepped foot out of the factory.

“Yes,” You tearfully and quietly admit, meeting his eyes briefly so he knows to take you seriously when you say, “It started…in the beginning…I never ended it.”

“I was just walking by and I stumbled across them…” Amber adds numbly, unable to meet Mark’s tortured gaze. Coward. She’d made her decision a long time ago.

Negan stands stoically for a moment, eyes flashing and calculating as he carefully studies his circumstances. He can’t believe that you’d do this, but then again, nothing should surprise him anymore.

Although he silently affirms to himself, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“So you’re prepared to take the fuckin’ consequences, like a man, huh?” His eyes harden as he pushes Mark up against the wall. “I’m gon’a have some real fun— _tonight_ —fucking your shit up.” He motions Dwight forward still looking into Mark’s fearful eyes.

“I want the iron ready before supper, and make sure the whole factory is attendance for what might be the answer to our questions we’re all  _dying_ to hear.”

He still doesn’t believe it, that you could fuck someone as airheaded as Mark. Tonight he’ll get his answers. 

“And you,” He growls, stepping towards you to grip your chin tightly. You whimper. Not from the grip or the sudden shit show that you’d found yourself in the middle of, but for the blatant hurt and confusion that thrives behind his irises. “Do you want to be with me, babydoll? It’s me or your _fuckin_ ’ boy-toy.” He looks so lost.

Babydoll.

“Yes,”  You whimper, heart aching. “I want you. Only you.”

“I thought that, too.” He says quietly, so quietly that only you hear.

Everything was fucking ruined and it was all David’s fault. It’s only a flicker—a flash of intense burning hate—but it’s there and you clutch your chest with its overwhelming intensity.

“Huh, so you are smart. Good choice.” He mockingly comments, louder this time. Clearly, he’s putting on a show. “You don’t _look_ at him, you don’t talk to him and,” His expression morphs into a godawful smirk, “I don’t make you chop off anything off him.”

“I understand…” He gives you a look so sharp that physically makes you flinch. You know what he wants.

“I understand, _husband_.” You correct.

He leaves without a backward glance and that seems to be the catalyst for the others that surround you. Amber finally releases her hand over her mouth, but when a sob escapes she cups it again and runs. Dwight gives one last look in Joey’s direction before leaving to prepare the iron like Negan had requested.

That leaves a handful of you, you’re still frozen in place. Unsure if the last several minutes had even happened. Everything had been going so well, you’d thought for sure you could ignore David and just move on.

More than anything, you wanted to move on.

“Y/N,” Annabella steps forward hesitantly as if scared you’ll break.  

You think you just might.

“Please, just go.” You beg. You can’t stand to look at her.

She reaches for you and you shrug off her grip, desperately trying to ignore her hurt expression. “If you think for a second I’m going to believe you’ve been fucking Mark.” She spits. “You’re dead wrong.”

“You don't get it, Bella. Just leave me the _fuck_ alone, please.” You glance over her shoulder, only for a second and meet David’s eyes. Of course, he’d find his way here. News traveled fast. He stands stoically at the end of the hallway, from where Negan had just disappeared and takes long strides to Mark who now lays crumpled on the floor.

**The flicker turns to a curl of heat.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double updates ahead until the story is finished! yay! x

“They say the first stage of grief is ‘shock’.” Your feet dangle over the edge of the Sanctuary’s rooftop. You are so high that beyond your usual view of the tree line, you can make out fields and rivers in the distance. And it all seems so painfully beautiful and unreal. “I’ve been reading that self-help book Kaleb gave me...”

           Up. 

    Up. 

Up. 

You’ve climbed.

What would it be like to fall?

Down.

       Down. 

              Down.

“Initial paralysis,” You pop the ‘p’ while leaning forward onto the railing, in which, Joey encourages you not to do. The bars are old. 

He finally acknowledges your mindless ramblings when you’ve down as he’s asked. “Why is that?”

“They say it’s a defense mechanism. A way for your brain to figure out a way to deal with the trauma before it lets you in.

“A trial with no judge?”

“More like a deliberation with no jury.” He’s doing that thing again. That wonderful, patient Joey thing where he waits for you to speak your mind unprovoked. “Sometimes I wonder whether or not...Eliza lived a good life. I feel like I know her and it just ended so abruptly.” As of yesterday night, you’d officially gone through all of the CDs that had been in her little pink case.

“A grand finale?”

You shake your head considering the last CD that had held a collection of songs with a general theme: It’s not over. 

“That’s not really her style, I think.” Sighing absentmindedly, you shift through the trying events of the past hour. Really, had it been such a short amount of time? Could one’s life really fall apart so quickly? It felt as if fate was cramming so much into a short amount of time, as if in a rush. Was that it? Was your narrative ending so soon? Looking back now, you felt calm. Indifferent. At least it was all out in the opening and you got to keep Negan. In what terms now, you’re unsure of. “If she was here she’d know what to do…how to fix all this. She was me in a way...” You find yourself trailing off as you gaze intently into the distance. 

Joey shifts and his body language, every ounce of him screams concern.“What happened, Y/N?”

 _Don’t laugh_. You barely resist the command. But this life—your life—it was hard to not just sit back and find humor in the minuscule details. All this time you’d been worried about Negan hurting you in some way and it’d been _you_ all along to hurt him. Maybe your mother was right? Maybe you were weak? 

And on a darker, humorous note: What _hadn’t_ happened today?

You finally decide on an appropriate response, one that won’t get Annabella killed. If that—if anything—you could keep your friend safe and care for her like she’d done for you. “I made a mistake, Joe. Why don’t we leave it at that.”

You weren’t giving up, far from it.

But with your back against the wall, you had no other choices.

You were giving in. 

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s the next stage of grief?” He leans back on his forearms, looking out into the distance. Same as you. Although, you can’t help but think you’re looking at different things and in two separate places. 

You decide to humor him, your voice nothing more than a sullen whisper, “Anger, Joe.” Your eyes are unseeing, yet they perceive far beyond now and into the future. “So much anger.”

He lapses into silence.

The heat is becoming unbearable, it’s force unstable. The most intense you’ve felt in so long, yet you aren’t afraid. Rather, a small smile makes its way onto your face. 

It seems your head had reached a deliberation.  

“Is there a stage of forgiveness?” He wonders aloud, turning his head so that he make out your silhouette. It unnerves him that you’re so calm, calculated. Yet he can almost feel the anger rolling off of you in waves. He’d seen that look before, memorized that rigid stance. Hell, he’s been on the receiving end of its _efforts_ one too many times.

The setting sun warms you slightly as you match his pose. Warmth. Inside and out. It’s comforting in a time of all _this_. 

“I’m not sure, Joe. I haven’t read that far ahead.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to reflect briefly and say how excited I am for you to read this chapter. THIS MOMENT, THIS CHAPTER was what I’d originally imagined when I thought of the premise for DB. I just sat there thinking how cool and different it would be to build up to this moment. So I wrote backward and built on this chapter until I ended up with this amazing fic. With that being said, we all have a breaking point. What’s yours?

Déjà vu.

Or maybe this was what some would refer to as a full circle moment?

You stood in almost the same position that you had many months ago, before the crackling fire in the underbelly of a furnace. Only this time you stood apart from the crowd and off to the left. The feeling of being discarded sticks to your skin as you watch Negan slowly taunt Mark. Round and round he goes, slowly circling his chair like the predator he is.

Dwight’s words from months ago, the very first time you’d met him, come back to you hauntingly: _Honey, do you know what would happen to me if I so much as looked at you funny?_

The iron, you recall with a hint of bitterness.

At least you’d get to watch Mark burn.

Negan beckons you forward with a single curl of his finger. He’s in his element, bouncing jokes off of the surrounding circle of Saviors that cajole and spur him on. They knew better than to touch one of Negan’s wives, especially when they had their own channel of indulgence—the pussy parlor—it was an obvious death sentence and borderline humorous to them. Apparently, Mark deserved what was coming to him.

Poor bastard should’ve had more common sense, you’d heard one of them murmur.

In the midst of it all, David is there, arms clenched and jaw tight; waiting for the moment he can rush to his cousin’s aid. This viewing party was strictly Savior’s only and you wonder, how graphic was this going to be if Negan didn’t want the general population of the factory here.

He was such an exhibitionist, your husband.

You ponder idly if David will somehow make you pay for this later. He hasn’t tried to do anything as far as you knew to Annabella and that’s enough for the moment. She stands only a couple feet away, arms tightly crossed and brows furrowed with the other wives.

Amber and Sherry look concerned for two different reasons and you can’t help but pity them, so different and yet so alike. Amber can’t help but cast nervous glances Mark’s way before finally, she buries her head into Sherry’s shoulder. In which, Sherry turns her attention to finally comfort the distraught girl, pulling her eyes away from the crowd in which she’d been compulsively scanning. She looks too absorbed in her thoughts to care about the events that are taking place around her.

You’re surprised Annabella hasn’t figured it out yet, but by then it might be too late. She was right in her assumption, she knew damn well that Mark had been with Amber from the very beginning. They all did. But it was the fear in your eyes that had stopped her from saying anything.

Negan holds out Lucille and you hesitate, arms outstretched before taking her. “Hold this, little wife.” It’s not a question.

She’s top-heavy, you observe, twirling her mindfully in your arms. But lighter than you’d initially thought. A small smile unconsciously festers at the corner of your lips, just a slight twitch, but unbeknownst to you, David catches it. You look up, catching his gaze and wink.

You’d considered several things in the past hour or so. Trying to assess the guilty party if you will. Maybe it was the events that had taken place earlier today with your mother, but you were tired of being used. Used by Mark as nothing more than a smoke screen for his real indiscretion. He knew it— _fuck_! You all knew it. That moment in the hallway, you’d been so ready to confess the happenings of your little outing to Negan. But where would that have left Mark and Amber? Obviously, they’d have to explain what they were doing together tucked into a darkened alcove, in a part of the Sanctuary that barely saw any foot traffic. As far as they knew, Amber was still a wife and there were rules to be followed under Negan’s guidelines. One that _they_ had broken. He’d been quick on his feet, Mark, at least you could admire that about him and in a way he's stepped up as a _man_. But he’d also dragged you onto the forsaken path with him.

And that was unforgivable.

He knew you’d be too scared to say anything! Scared of his fucking cousin who had degraded you on that forest floor, left bruises that might have started to fade but would never entirely disappear. He was just as guilty as his lowlife cousin and given that conclusion—he’d have to pay. They thought of you as nothing more than a weak parasite, something that survived by clinging to others who were stronger. But what really constituted as strong—and to them of all people? Mark, Amber, David. Your mother.

You’d show them all.

In the very beginning, when you’d first set eyes on the Sanctuary, you’d compared it to a mangled metal castle. Never had you been more right. There were knights which you’d come to find were the not so noble Saviors. A medieval social class. One that you’d found yourself climbing the top of rather quickly and sinking into the good graces of the king. But you were nothing compared to his most prized possession, Annabella. He’d kept her alive for many years on the road before they’d found the Sanctuary and it was with her by his side that he’d gotten where he was now. She is his only connection to the past and you could never fault that.

You’d save the princess, Annabella, if it was the last thing you’d do.

For Negan.

Now, this really was a full circle moment, you’d finally come to the thick of it. All this will be and would have occurred for Negan, you’d do anything for the man that had pieced together your heart and promptly stolen it.

For the record, you knew you were becoming a bit unstable.

It’s as if someone was pulling at your frayed edges, gradually, so gradually that it was almost indecipherable. But this anger. This **heat**. It has a mind of its own and it demands to be felt, to take victims and make someone hurt the way you had been hurting for so long.

David was still an unknown variable but you could be patient if there was anything that you had now—it was time. So much time on your hands.

And heartbreak.

Negan begins to speak, his word gritty and akin to what you can only picture are knees slowly dragging across concrete as he drawls, “We survive. We provide security to others. We bring civilization back to this world…we **are** the Saviors!” He pauses and the hoots from the surrounding crowd reach a defining pitch. Their faceless as the light from the fire throws shadows across the darkened room. He waits for silence before he continues. “But we can’t do that without rules, rules are what make it all work. I know it’s not easy but there’s always work, there is always a cost. **Here,** if you try to skirt it! If you try to cut that corner…”

His bellowing words convert to an all familiar whisper as he turns his attention on you. “Then what happens, babydoll?”

“The iron,” You answer.

He nods approvingly before barking out, “Dwight.” The order is there in that single word and the hot iron practically materializes into his palm as he turns to Mark who’s shackled to his chair. “Mark, I’m sorry,” Negan shrugs and you watch his broad shoulders roll with the movement, “but it is what it is.”

From beneath your lashes, you witness it all. Amber clutches onto Sherry tighter. Annabella shifts on her feet. David sharply inhales. The entire room seems to hold it’s breath before Mark’s agonized screams fill the room. The smell of melting flesh churns your stomach as it reaches your nostrils. The heat of the furnace presses against you, the flames lashing unforgivingly at the exposed skin of your back in the dress that Negan had sent to your room only minutes before this.

It had hurt, something so simple. Joey’s words about him putting you in a different category had come back to you then.

But you’d also felt something else.

Rage. A quiet kind that even now was slowly seeping into your thoughts and tinting your vision in a hazy red.

It’s quiet.

You burn some more from the inside as the heat from the furnace attempts to match its counterpart.

So much anger.

“That wasn’t so bad now was it.” Negan chuckles, passing the iron back to Dwight. “C’mere, Y/N.”

Your heels make a quiet clicking sound as you step forward and assess Mark’s disfigured face. Negan watches you watch Mark.

“Anything you want to say to, pretty boy? Ain’t so pretty now.” He laughs and the rest of the Savior’s join in.

_Was there anything you wanted to say?_

Quite a bit, actually.

You lean forward, tottering carefully on your heels until you’re lips barely brush against Mark’s ear. “Oh shit, look at you! You actually did it. Took it like a _man_. Tell me, pretty boy, how’d she like to take it?” You whisper. Cocking your head, you point Lucille at Amber’s quivering frame and his eyes flicker to her briefly. “I don’t have much to lose and it seems neither do you. David told me in the forest...after you interrupted him trying to rape me, that he’d kill Bella if I said something. Do you get where I’m going with this?”

From behind you, Negan taunts impatiently. “Lover’s quarrel?”

Mark’s eyes widen as your smile only seems to grow, you both knew it. You’d gained the upper hand. “He said that he’d make sure she never make it back on a run. _But_ —and I’ve thought about this very, very hard. David never leaves the factory. So who are they, Mark? Tick. Tock.”

“Jeb,” He spits out instantly, “and Kyle.”

“Is that all? And don’t lie to me?” You raise Lucille threateningly, pressing her barbs against the desecrated side of his face. You can’t help but laugh. Pretty boy was no more. “Look at that, _Marky_ , I got to watch you bleed after all.” You chuckle as the barbs catch a bit of melted flesh that had been hanging from his chin. 

“I swear.” His words are slurred, he’s barely hanging onto to consciousness. “Just…don’t…hurt her…”

You straighten then, pulling at the hem of your dress to meet Negan’s dark gaze. He’s absolutely glorious at the moment. Having taken several steps back, you watch him from a distance. Against the backdrop of the flames of the furnace, he’s illuminated. His brow puckered and face tense, he watches you as the fire dances in your eyes.

“I need this,” You mouth, only waiting a handful of seconds before he nods a bit stiffly. Annabella is now at his side and she tugs at his sleeve, whispering fiercely into his ear. You notice he now has his arm at his waistband where his gun rests. You still have Lucille.  

You announce to the room. “I’m done now.”

David steps forward, a slight sneer on his face as he moves to his cousin’s side. Jeb and Kyle. You weren’t sure who they were, but you’d find out. Annabella would be safe.

Yet.

His answer seems to only fuel the flame, you’re practically burning up.

“Wait.” You find yourself saying before you’ve made the conscious decision to even speak. David’s pauses. He’d knelt to undo Mark’s shackles. “I need you to know me, David.”

Your voice is louder now, allowing the room in as you begin to circle the two men that have **fucked** with your life.

“Keep the circle tight, boys.” Negan barks. You chance a glance in his direction and he nods again, this time understanding shining clearly in his posture. They couldn’t know the whole story but by the end of tonight, they would. You say a silent prayer to your father, begging for his mercy and forgiveness as you walk deeper into the flames. Your only hope is that you’ll be able to scavenge what’s left when you come out onto the other side.

“My husband was right when he said there are rules. I’ll admit that. I should have never left the factory with you—either of you.” Your shuffling stops, the grip on Lucille tightening as your treated to a view of the back of David’s head. It’s not good enough, you want to look him in the eye when he dies. “I paid that cost. Look at me.” You order David, nudging his chin with the tip of Lucille as you drag your dress up and show him the bruises he’d left on your thigh.

“You thought I was weak.” Pursuing your lips, you survey the fear in his eyes. You did that. You were _making_ someone fear you. “But the thing is, David. I don’t feel weak. Not right now. I feel, hmm.” You pretend to ponder the thought, though you’d made your decision the moment Negan had placed Lucille into your hands.

“I feel like making you suffer.” Exertion. The pounding of blood in your ear. The sound of Lucille cutting through the air sharply as you swing her forward. The solidness of David’s skull cracking under the pressure you put behind your swing. “Holy shit!” You shout, wiping the blood that had spattered onto your face. The pounding of blood turns to a roar in your ears as your hands begin to shake. You clutch Lucille tighter. Pictures of David holding you down while you begged for mercy are on repeat in your head.

“Mark, you’ve got a little something, right _there_.” You motion to the blood of his cousin that coats his face before the sound of labored breathing catches your attention.

David hobbles on his knees, he’s still upright, by some odd twist of fate. “You still with me? I just don’t know, David. That’s a hell of a hit and that’s just…gross as shit.” You motion to his eye socket that’s missing its eye. The left side of his head now displays an impressively sized crater.

Thank you, adrenaline. You swing again only this time catching him on the top of his head and he goes down twitching. Mark screams. He screams and screams.

“Scream, Mark!” You taunt, wiping some of David’s blood on his lips. "Scream like I did that day when I begged him to stop!” That shuts him up. Negan tries to run forward and Annabella clutches him tighter. You hear her say that you need this.

Yeah, you do, come to think of it. You need to see him bleed. Turning David’s head with your heel, you bring Lucille repeatedly onto his skull. Taking out all your anger and hate and disgust into his unmoving body. It’s intoxicating, eradicating your demons. The idea of killing someone is so deliciously sinful—you doubt you’ll ever dream of God again.

When you’re finally finished, David is unrecognizable and his head is in pieces at your feet. Wet, chunky pieces of what must be brain matter.

Huh, cool. You look up for the first time in minutes, remembering that you have an audience. They stare at you, impressed. Some even clap.

“Oh gosh, gentlemen. Sorry, you had to see me like that.” You apologize, now edging off your high. You feel _everything_ and you want Kaleb who’s at Hilltop for several more days. But maybe it’s best he isn’t here for this. You could have a fresh start when he returns and no more anger, ever again. At least, after tonight. “Look at this. I just wanted them to know me— _both_ of them.”  You giggle, swinging Lucille in an arch as you turn to Mark and raise Lucille. “So, back to it—!”

Amber’s anguished shout fills the room. Damn, you’d forgotten about her. She catches you off guard, tackling you to the floor in a quick maneuver that jostles Lucille out of your grip. “You fucking psycho bitch! You can’t kill him, I love him!” She screeches, pressing your head into the pool of David’s blood. It tastes of rust and salt.

It’s wet and messy, it happens so fast that they all watch for a moment, stunned. She bores down harder and you start to form a headache from the pressure. You falter, scooping some of David’s brain matter and smearing it onto her face in which she promptly let’s go of you with a shriek. Then Annabella’s there, lifting her promptly off of you. Their fists fly and where you still lay at Mark’s feet, you can tell that Annabella has the upper hand.

“Don’t hurt her!” Mark’s only free appendage, his left foot that David had been working on, catches your mouth and you release an angered roar. You’ll kill him too, paint the floor with his and David’s blood. You scramble, reaching for Lucille.

Only, your attempt is cut short by Negan’s own angered roar, it's sinister. The chaos stop. Up until your impromptu execution, the Saviors had been watching with bated breath. Their silence shifting to rowdy catcalls and taunts when Amber had taken you down in a pool of blood. They quite now, quickly, some mid-hoot, when Negan steps forward and advances to where you kneel beside Mark.

“A little birdy told me,” Negan quietly drawls, watching as you spit out a mouthful of blood onto the already bloodied floor. “You’ve been fucking one of my ex-wives and right under my nose, too. I could have overlooked that, hell, if you’d just waited one more day; you and Amber over there could have walked off into the sunset—happily fuckin’ after.”

He’s quick to move.

Negan’s hands tighten around Mark’s neck, and he struggles instinctively reaching to where he’s being choked. “Sweetheart, you wan’a piece of this?” Negan coos mockingly as Mark’s face begins to change colors.

It’s wrong but you can’t help but giggle a bit, it starts relieved but quickly becomes tinted with hysteria. You attempt to stand but slip in a pile of brain matter, landing on your ass— _hard_. Fuck, you’d really done that. Killed your attacker. How about that for weak? You nudge David’s abdomen and giggle some more.

“Annabella,” Negan barks, watching your silent musings. Your fingers draw patterns in the pool of his blood. You write **RIP**  in all caps. “Take her to see, Doc.” He orders, he’s still choking Mark.

You sense her approach and you’re ready to go. No more loose ends. You’d tied up every fray that you can possibly think of. A Savior, Arat, has a firm hand on Amber’s shoulder as she wails.

“Wait,” You crawl on your hands and knees to where David’s headless corpse lays discarded. Meticulously, you go through each of the tiny pockets on his cargo vest until you find what you’re looking for. Holding up your opal necklace for them all to see, you explain, “He took it from me, said it was collateral.”

“Okay, we’re leaving.” Annabella’s relentless now, ushering you away from the main floor and up the flight of stairs to the infirmary. All the while, you fill her in quietly of the ongoings of the past week. “Y/N, I could have lost you to that fucking pervert! I can take care of them myself.” Still, she takes note of the names you give her, promising to do something of it later.

You think it’s useless to describe your reasoning for keeping quiet when Mark had kissed you, as well as your medieval comparison of the Sanctuary, it would only fly over her head. Instead, you switch topics. “Do you think Negan still loves me?”

He’d called you sweetheart.

“Y/N,” She stops just inches from the infirmary door. “Look at me, sweetie. He never stopped loving you. He was confused and that’s what he does when he’s hurt. You just have to tell him what you told me. No more secrets, ever.”

With that being said, she barges into the room, startling Lisa and demands that she see to you at once. The room is painfully sterile, but thankfully empty and Doc rushes to your aid when she notices the blood caked onto your skin.

“It’s not mine.” You assure her.

They coerce you into a shower before Doc hands you a pair of soft scrubs and a thick sweatshirt to throw own. You’re internally grateful of her thoughtfulness, going as far as to not make a fuss when she insists on a full checkup. Including, blood work.

You hated needles.

Annabella sits at your side, a comforting hand wrapped around your waist while the other strokes your hair. She whispers soothing words into your ear as the prick of a needle pierces your skin.

“Adrenaline,” Doc answers when a particularly violent tremor rakes through your body. “You’re coming down from all these stress hormones. It’s normal while your body tries to regulate its temperature and bring down your blood pressure.”

“Thank you, Lisa.” Annabella graciously answers, hugging you tighter.

“What the fuck was that?” The door opens and bounces off the with the force of Negan fist as he comes storming through. His breath is labored and he looks almost animalistic in his anger.

You’ve never been more happy to see him. 

“I’m sorry.” You try to apologize as he advances towards you, upending a cot in his haste. “They threatened me.”

“Who?” He’s with you know, gripping your chin upward so that he can look into your eyes. He wants to see you say the truth.

“David, mostly,” You answer cautiously, before filling him in on what had happened while he’d been away at Hilltop. You continue with Annabella’s encouragement to talk about earlier today and how you’d stumbled across Amber and Mark. How he’s used you.

“So instead of telling me that some fucker is threatening your life. You thought it would be smart to have me think you were cheating on me? You thought it would be better to hurt me!” He barks, chest heaving. Lisa stands back watching the exchange cautiously.

You want to assure her that he won’t hurt you but you’d stumbled across an even bigger revelation. So that was it. He was hurt. Clutching at his shirt, you tug at him relentlessly until he steps forward, falling to his knees so that you’re eye level.

“I love you,” You breath, clutching at him as you softly sob. Today has been a cluster-fuck of a day and all you wanted was for him to hold you. He clutches you even tighter whispering the words into your skin. “I would never cheat on you.”

“I knew that,” He softly protests, “but then you went and said all that shit... I didn’t know what to believe.”

You hesitantly broach the subject when it's apparent he’s calmed down some. “David said he had people that would hurt Annabella. Make sure she never came back from a run.”

“Jeb and Kyle.” Annabella helpfully supplies as you continue to calm him, running your hands through his hair.

He picks his head up from your lap, eyes narrowed, “From the treehouse outpost?”

She nods, considering, “That’s less than 15 minutes away.” A silent agreement seems to pass between them. “I’ll radio Kaleb, we’ll fill him in on the way there.”

You don’t even have the heart to protest the fact that they're speaking like you’re not even in the room. Shifting with a tired sigh, you draw your attention back to you.

“I’m fine.” You insist. “Go and take care of the problem.”

Neither of them budges.

“Actually,” Lisa steps forward from where she’d been quietly working at her little lab station, “I still have several tests to run on, Y/N. It might be best if we had some privacy.”

“See,” You back her up, pushing at the both of them, “the sooner you handle them, the sooner we can all move on.”

With a kiss on the forehead from Annabella and a gentle kiss from Negan, they leave promptly.

You turn to Lisa who’d also been watching them leave. “Thank you, for that.”

“Actually, Y/N.” She sits at the foot of your cot and pushes her glasses up to her hairline. I needed them to leave because, well…” She pauses. “Do you know what a quantitative blood test is?”

“No, did you find something bad?” You ask. Were you dying? Cancer? And to find out today of all days…

Well, that’d be the shitty cherry on top of this entire shit-show of a day.

“I ran numerous blood tests as a precaution. But the quantitative blood test is meant to identify trace amounts of hCG in your blood stream.” She takes a deep breath waiting for _what_ , you’re unsure of? Shock? Dismay?

“In English?” You hesitantly inquire, somehow you’re calmer than you’d thought. Discussing your potential demise after killing someone in front of a crowd of people… Well, it tends to put things into perspective, you were quickly learning.

“You’re pregnant.”

A baby.

Negan’s baby.

This tethered you to him in a manner you weren’t entirely comfortable with yet.

You still can’t believe it.

“A little over a month,” Lisa declares quietly from her place between your spread legs. She’d offered to do an ultrasound but had explained gently that the Sanctuary only had a transvaginal option. You were okay with that. If you’d learned anything from your stay here, it was how to take off your clothes. “Almost two months.” She confirms.

Every trace amount of anger leaves your body entirely when you hear your baby’s rapid heartbeat.

You’d heard once that babies could pick up on angry voices.

“How?” You wonder aloud in awe, your voice is a whisper afraid to drown out its heartbeat. “I was on the implant.”

You’re not even showing, you think as you brush your hand over your soft belly. It all made sense. The slight cravings, the sickness. Your irregular period. You’d just assumed it was your body reacting to the birth control. 

“Yes,” She considers her words carefully, obviously noting the delicate situation. You both watch the grainy screen. That tiny, indistinguishable blob is your baby. Negan’s baby. “There’s a number of ‘what-ifs’ but the likelihood of the implant being damaged in some way seems to be my best explanation.” At your gaping expression, she continues. “Birth control implants need to be handled in a precise manner, even the slighted dent in the rod could cause inconsistencies with the distribution of hormones released. Look around—do these people look like medical professionals to you.”

“Fuck no,” You sniff slightly, settled at her explanation. Two months…

“The implant could have also been past its expiration date,” She continues, removing the wand from your opening and handing you tissues to clean yourself with. “The other wives had theirs put in several years ago, so that would explain your predicament...” 

“Y/N, are you alright?” Lisa asks when she notices you’ve gone still.

“I was drinking!” You suddenly realize, clutching the tissues tightly in a death grip. “I-I’ve been hurting my baby and _I’m_ supposed to be its mother?”

You desperately want your own mother.

“Y/N, you’ll have to calm down, sweetie. Stress isn’t good for the baby and your blood pressure is a bit too high." Lisa gently orders. “Plenty of mothers drink unknowingly during the beginning of their pregnancy. How much?”

You attempt to do the math. “I think that was around the time I started my sobriety…I had a relapse and I drank heavily. But I did end up throwing most of it up.” You protest, nibbling on your lips as you consider that harrowing day. You’d been so selfish wanting to die…and take Negan’s baby as well. Fuck! Just to imagine his face when they’d examine your body, as they did with all deaths within the factory…

It’d kill him.

The thought tore at you.

“That’s good.” She assures you. “It’s in _this_ trimester of development that is most critical to the fetus and when they draw the most nutrients from the placenta. You’ll need to stop taking your birth control of course, but I’ve seen no evidence of any long-term damage. Y/N, you’re baby is going to be alright and I’ll be there every step of the way to make sure of it.”

“Thank you, Lisa. How can I ever repay you?” You’re only partially joking in your plea but when she quiets for a moment your curiosity is piqued.

“Well,” She hems and haws for a moment, helping you dress, “and I know this is grossly unprofessional. Probably not the best time either, huh?” She rambles.

You prompt her to continue anyway. You’d officially washed your hands of David and were hell-bent on leaving today’s trauma in the past. Where it belonged.

She blows out a breath and wrings her hands. “Do you know if Annabella is seeing anyone?”

With a promise that you’ll put in a good word or two for her, you leave. Only, you’re sure that the way she treated you with care is enough of a character reference for Annabella. She’s fiercely loyal and more than capable of taking care of herself, you were sure of it now.

The same time you round a corner at a small intersection you run into both Dwight and Joey. “What are you two doing?” You ask dropping your hands from where they’d cupped your abdomen.

A baby.

“We're going for a drink on the rooftop.” Dwight answers. “You?”

“To Negan’s.” You weren’t sure of the time but he should’ve been back by now. You’d been holed up in the infirmary with Doc for quite some time. In fact, before she’d given you an ultrasound she’d taken you through numerous ‘do’s and don’t’ of a pregnancy, seeing as this was your first.

“He’s still not back. We just came from that direction, actually.” Joey inputs. “Arat said he went on a drive with Annabella.”

“Oh, right.” You stutter. It was witching hour and knowing Negan it would take a bit.

“I could wait with you,” Joey offers. “Keep you company.”

Well, okay then, maybe that was for the best. When Negan got back you’d be able to talk to him and discuss a course of action. He’d be deliriously happy, you thought, remembering the look of longing on his face when he discussed Lucille’s miscarriage. You would do this pregnancy right and bring a healthy baby into the world. You were making a conscious choice—the right choice—to look past your own pain for the moment and think of the ones around you. You were going to be a mother, planned or not…

“Better yet,” Dwight hastily suggests. “You could join us. It’s barely nine, Y/N.”

The future was bright.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter should have been up with the last but I misplaced the file. my apologies! x

Today, your mother had left you without a backward glance. You’d been horrendously manipulated and your trust abused—a pawn in other’s deception—before finally seeking a bloody revenge against your attacker. But nothing…

                      **Nothing.**

**Came even close to the hurt of this moment.**

There’s this persistent high-pitched ringing in your ear. You wished that whoever was screaming would quiet for a moment, only so that you could think. It seemed that every time you moved for a conscious thought it was just out of arms reach.

“Oh, my god!” They cry over and over again. It’s real, heart-wrenching sadness and you want to reach out and comfort them. You know how it feels to hurt like that. You want to tell them that it can get better, only that they’ll have to make their fair amount of mistakes along the way.

But it’s you, you realize dully. You were the one uncontrollably sobbing. With an almost sickening compulsion, your frayed mind worked to absorb every detail of this moment as your fists tightly clenched the metal railing. From where you stood, several inches away, the railing was jagged and broken.

The place where it had happened.

A voice other than your own keeps speaking but your cries drown it out. “S-shit—shit! I told him not to get too close to the edge!”

Turning to a dazed-looking Dwight, you pull at his arm, attempting to shake him out of his stupor. “You need to go get Lisa,” You demand.

He shakes his head, peeking over the edge of the rooftop and down into the concrete courtyard where Joey’s body lies. His left leg and arms are at an odd angle, but it's possible... He’d only fell several stories. You’d heard of people who’d miraculously survived worse.  

“Y/N…he can’t be…”

“Go!” You bellow.

He leaves without a backward glance.

Your loud sobs and labored breathing carry with you down the echoing hallway as you pitch forward down several flights of stairs and onto the main floor. While it’s late there’s still people loitering around, several of which try to stop you and ask what’s wrong.

What’s wrong is that Joey is hurt. Your head plays the sickening thump that had awoken you. So loud and heavy. Pushing past them, you rush out into the Sanctuary’s main yard. You’re unsure of which way to go, never really one to leave the factory’s walls but there had been a view of the trees unobscured so it had to be somewhere along the back.

“Hey!” One of Negan’s Saviors jogs over in your direction, stopping short when it becomes apparent that something isn’t right. “Miss, do you need something?”

“Yes… _yes_!” You mumble, head whipping back to and fro. “Take me to the back of the factory!”

“Negan wouldn’t want—”

“Now! Take me now— _ **goddamnit**_!” You’re screaming, catching the attention of the others in the courtyard.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know, she wandered out here looking like that…”

“Fuck, Negan will be back soon…”

You can’t be bothered to listen to their ramblings. Joey was out there—alone and dying.

Joey, who’d been so patient and kind. Telling you stories of his own hurt. His triumph.

Joey, who’d aided in your sobriety and read you self-help books on the days you’d been too sick to get out of bed.

“Hey!” You grab the ring of keys from off the belt of one of the men crowded around you, taking off immediately to your right as the dirt beneath your feet becomes concrete. You fumble with the keys, opening one gate before doing the same thing to another.

The sound of footsteps follows you as you continue to jog the perimeter of the large building until the landscape becomes painfully familiar.

“Oh, Joey.” You quietly whimper, wrestling with the small gate that surrounds a barren courtyard. Its stark except for his broken body.  The others soon crowd around the entrance as you step forward. In a desperate attempt to savor this moment—a moment when you’re still hopeful he’s alive—you gaze around, feeling and cataloging the earth. It’s late and the stars are out, the moon glows with its life-force and spills iridescence onto Joey’s prone form. He looks distorted, yet oddly peaceful. And there’s the chittering of animals in the distance, the sound of a dragonfly. Tonight would be so beautiful if it wasn’t for the pain that had tainted every second of before.

It was official. Today was the worst day of your life.

“Fuck!”

“Is that Fat Joe?”

“What the hell happened…”

“Negan’s coming! He saw her running…”

You drop to your knees with an anguished wail, taking in his contorted limbs up close. His neck is clearly snapped from the position he landed in, sitting practically backward on his neck as a thin streak of blood runs from between his lips. Several feet away, his shoes lay discarded.  

You have to try, you think. “Joey, wake up! Please!” He’s not breathing but it’s only been several minutes since he’d fell.

Mid-attempt of the hemlock maneuver a firm grip wraps around your middle, pulling you away. “Sweetie, stop! He’s not breathing…”

“Annabella?” You hear yourself ask distantly, tears coloring her name. It’s not your fault, you can allow for yourself to be weak just this once. For a friend.

“Yes, sweetie, it’s me.” She hugs you tighter from behind. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Negan stalks through the crowd, slow and precise as Lucille rests on his shoulder. His eyes survey the crowd before coming to rest on Joey’s body momentarily before they jump to you, unreadable and dark.

“Today just keeps dishing out heaps upon heaps of bullshit!” He spits. “What the fuck happened here?”

Dwight jumps in before you can say anything. When had he gotten here? Why wasn't he helping? “ We were drinking on the roof. Joey, me, and Y/N…”

At Negan’s sharp look, you explain dazed, “I was looking for you when I left the infirmary and…I ran into Dwight a-and Joey. They asked if I wanted to go to the roof…with them. I didn’t want to be alone!” You burst into another round of tears as Annabella rocks you in her arms. “I was tired and I fell asleep on the roof…the sound of him…falling…woke me up…”

“He was drunk.” Dwight declares sadly. “I told him not to get to close to the edge, but he did.”

Negan steps forward to observe the body and you do the same on hands and knees, crawling across the pavement until you reach him.

Joey reeks of alcohol, you hadn’t noticed before but he was saturated in it. How could he be so stupid? He’d been the one to warn you about the rusted bars in the first place.

“Seems he had too much to drink,” Negan agrees, scrubbing at his face with a tired sigh.

“There’s no point in doing an autopsy,” Lisa whispers from somewhere near. “It’s pretty cut and dry here…”

“We should move the body,” Dwight announces.

Negan turns and reaches for you. He tugs at you quite roughly, whether it’s from the situation or the past several hours, you can’t bring yourself to care. “Get inside, Y/N.”

“No, let go of me. No!” Breaking free of his grip, you run back to where they're putting Joseph’s body on a stretcher. “Stop! We’re not leaving until you say a few good words about him… H-he deserves that much.” You whisper and gaze pleadingly at Negan until he barks out for the Saviors who are carrying Joey’s body to set him down.

“From the heart,” You remind him as he stands stoically beside you.

A small crowd has gathered.  

"For anyone out there who loved the obese bastard as much as I did. I just wanna say a... few words.” Negan begins as he regards you with an aura of concern that seems to roll off him in waves. You must look a mess. “Fat Joey was not the most badass son of a bitch—but he was loyal. He had a great sense of humor, in fact, we were just joking about oral sex with Lucille the other day.” He releases a tired chuckle before continuing. “Things will not be the same now that he's dead. Without Fat Joey...Skinny Joey is just…Joey. So it's a goddamn tragedy, let's have a moment of silence.” He finishes.

You nod approvingly as the other Savior’s stand around. You wish that there was more you could do but someone dying really was more common now than before. The least you could do was tell his legacy. “Joseph is the bravest man I know. He grew up experiencing things a child should never have to endure…” Swallowing heavily, you consider the unfairness of life. Joey hadn’t gotten to experience love or the joy of having kids. He’d only lived a quarter of a life.

“But the amazing thing about that is he didn’t let it break him…he let it…mold him, I think. In fact, just a little while ago,” You choke on your next words, realizing he’d spent his last moment alive with you, “he told me that he knew he wasn’t the strongest or the fittest but he could say proudly that he didn’t let this world break him. And that, as long as he could just get up in the morning and smile at his reflection he knew he was going to be okay.”

Taking a steadying break, you look down at his body until tears cloud your vision and they run freely onto your cheeks. "When I was at my lowest, he picked me up off the floor, something I’ll never be able to repay. He was my best friend and shadow. He was my savior.”

“Here, here!” The Savior’s give a collective cheer of supplies, some even going as far as to pull out their flasks and pour a small amount of its content onto the concrete. Coming from a place where liquor cost a good amount of points, you knew the act was coming from a place of respect. Liquor was a blessing and a curse here…

And that’s when it hits you.

Joey wasn’t a heavy drinker.

He couldn’t have…

“Oh, fuck— _ugh_!” You pitch forward, grabbing your tiny belly as a strong cramp resonates from somewhere near your uterus.

Vaguely you hear Annabella call your name in worry. “Y/N!”

“I’m fine,” You huff, batting at hands that attempt to grab you.

“Like hell you are. Inside now!” Negan barks, sweeping you off your feet before you can protest. You leave him there in the courtyard, apologizing profusely to Joey wherever he may be. For the sake of yourself and your unborn baby, you could not allow the grief edging at the brink of your conscious to consume you.

Thank you, for everything. I love you.

With a tired sigh, you let Negan take you far from the courtyard and a piece of your soul you’ll never get back.

 

* * *

 

 

“How can I make this better, baby?”

“A hot bath,” You request, resting at the edge of his bed where he places you, “and letting me apologize.”

Your reconciliation in the infirmary had been brief and open to prying eyes. You wanted to fix this, your relationship, because you knew that today had played at his long-buried insecurities. No one could turn off the doubt, it would take time and patient.

He eyes you warily before leaving to run your bath, only coming back when the task is done. You eye the large tub threatening to overflow with bubbles before turning to him. “Join me?” Were hot baths even good for pregnant women? You reconciled that you wouldn’t stay in for too long.

He helps you undress before doing the same, his long legs incasing you on both sides as you sink onto his lap, submerging beneath the pleasantly warm water. It was just what you needed, you never could stand the cold for long.

“I’m sorry.” You quietly utter.

He sighs, resting his arms against your middle as he reclines, the water softly lapping at the sides of the tub with his movement and you continue when he doesn’t make an effort to speak. “From the very first moment that I arrived at the Sanctuary I’ve been asking you not to hurt me. I was terrified of it actually. I was afraid of everything, so I hid from it all, even though I knew it was wrong and it would hurt Kaleb if he knew how much I was drinking...all so I wouldn't have to feel anything. I could see the way I was acting under the influence, but I didn’t care. I was so destructive and sometimes I even wanted you to hurt me.” You shrug, thumbing at his leg hair thoughtlessly.

You recall the first time that you’d had sex with Negan. His lips dragging across your bare shoulder as you whimpered for him to do it, to hurt you. He’d gripped you tighter, pulled you without restraint against his pistoning hips in a bruising rhythm that you'd begged for. In your own way, you were searching for your own punishment.

“Everyone’s entitled to hurt, sweetheart.” He presses his lips soothingly against the middle of your back, cupping some warm water and letting it spill against your skin.

“That’s not the point, Negan. I was a hypocrite and I hurt you.” You whimper now having the compulsive urge to apologize for every bad thing you’d felt you’d ever done. “That wasn’t fair to you. I should have never left the Sanctuary with them and I should have told you that Mark threatened to hurt Bella.”

“She can more than take care of herself.” He chuckles, wetting the ends of your hair before working his way up to massage your tender scalp.

You let a watery laugh escape you and he straightens, drawing you closer to his chest. “I know that now.”

“Listen to me,” He turns your chin so you meet his dark expressive eyes. You wonder if your baby will inherit them, “there are going to be people that want to hurt me—get between this." He presses his wet fingertips between the space of your breasts. "So for us to stay alive, sweetheart… For me to keep you, Y/N, you have to start being honest with me. _Communicate_. I won’t lose you because of a simple misunderstanding.” You’re temporarily touched by the maturity and honesty that he wishes to instill in your relationship.

“Although,” He lightly laughs, renewing his efforts to dampen your hair and what’ll you’ll realize later is really an effort to remove the dried blood caked into the stands, “watching you earlier was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It was like watching a female version of me. I’d fuck me.” He adds as an afterthought.

You share a small laugh before offering him insight into your head during that dark time. “I was so angry for what they did to me—angry for so many reasons, Negan. I guess I just snapped…”

His lips press firmly against the back of your neck and he briefly tongues the chain of the opal necklace before releasing it with a dark chuckle. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, they’re paying for what they’ve done.”

With a shiver, you decide it’s best to drop the whereabouts of Amber and Mark.

“And Sherry?” You hedge.

“What the fuck, did she do something I’m unaware of?” He sounds exasperated and pissed, you admit that you know where’s he’s coming from. So many secrets and so many rules broken.

“No,” You quickly answer, considering Sherry's lackluster presence in your life. As far as you knew, her relation with Simon had been a secret and you would keep it that way. You could do that much for her. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“She’ll be given ample compensation and her own room,” He nods, considering, as you snuggle deeper into his arms. “She doesn’t step out of line and she keeps all her toes.” His words hold an air of finality that you easily accept, choosing to lapse into contemplative silence.

Your thoughts are filled with memories with Joey, of long talks and shared laughter before they shift to today’s happenings. Could it really be over or was fate just taking a breather? Today had been unreal, too much had happened and it was almost too much to process.

Still, you were whole. Still feeling. _Yes_ , a little scarred, but you'd never felt more alive. Like today had embodied the rest of your life and you'd gotten through it.

No, this wasn’t the worst day of your life, more like the initial impact of landing over this giant hurdle you hadn’t even realized you were jumping over in the first place.

He finally breaks the silence. “I’m sorry about Joey, sweetheart.”

“He’s dead.” You say it more as an experiment, testing your initial reaction. There aren’t any tears left for you to shed.

“And you’re alive,” He finishes.

“I feel guilty,” You admit, “like I took life for granted and yet, I’m the one here. Doesn't feel good.”

“You took what you could and grew from that shit, and now you’re here, regardless of what others have said or done. That takes guts. Look at me, Y/N.” He nudges your chin. “I’m really fucking proud of you, sweetheart.”

The conversation is heavy enough and with a brief kiss, you change the subject, beginning to hedge, “You’re gonna have to quit all that cursing soon…”

“Why in the hell would I ever wan’a give up cussing, baby? It gives my sentences character.” He scoffs, rambling on about his need to keep his individuality. God, you want so badly to roll your eyes and laugh. This was the guy who’d knocked you up?

You mentally say ‘fuck it’. Here was your chance…

And there was no time like the present.

Deep breath. A really big breath.

“…because if you think for a goddamn minute…”

“I’m pregnant,” His arms freeze where they rest on your shoulders. You hastily continue, “Lisa said that the implant Carson gave me might have been damaged or past the expiration date…”

He’s quiet for a time. “How long?”

“Almost two months,” You admit ashamed, “I could have harmed our baby by drinking. I could have had a miscarriage.”

The thought still terrifies you. What if something happened to the baby, even now? Cruel karma? Or was it divine intervention?

“But you didn’t?” You're frustrated by the fact that you can’t get a good read on his tone and the courage to turn your head, just to gauge his expression, is painfully lacking at the moment. This is not how you thought your announcement would go, especially on a day like this. “We’re having a baby?”

“Yes—!” With a startled squeal, he lifts and positions you so that you’re facing him. Chests pressed tightly together and hearts pounding, your lips hover mere centimeters above his, just inhaling each other’s life essence.

With a careful exhale that almost shatters your heart, he pleads between shuttered breaths, “Say it again, sweetheart.”

“We’re having a baby.” Each word is enunciated carefully and he takes note of it all. The pursing of your lips, a hint of a smile just begging to break free, and the slight pucker of your dimple when you draw out the ‘e’ sound.

A baby.

“Fuckin’ shit! I knocked you up!” He looks oddly pleased with himself as he pulls you into a tight embrace, sandwiching your future child between two wildly beating hearts. After a minute, he pulls away abruptly, glancing down at your flat stomach. “You’re okay with this?”

You take time with your words, knowing that your husband is always four moves ahead and instinctively braces for the worst. “I’m young and a part of me is terrified that I’ll be a bad mother. That this is too soon and it’ll break our relationship somehow, but then there’s a part of me that is…over the moon…that I get to be the one who gives you this.” The last part slips from your lips unabridged.

He covers his mouth with yours, silencing anymore of your ramblings as your mouths move against one another in a passionate embrace.

“I see you’re okay with this.” You carefully observe, breaking the kiss.

“More than okay,” He confirms, eyes dancing with blatant love and happiness. It takes your breath away. “Your belly is gon’a be round with my kid.”

The death of Joey is temporally forgotten, pushed aside in your quest to fill this day with something more than a handful of traumatic incidents. Maybe it is pure selfishness on your part, to pick today of all days to announce a baby... But you’d like to have the pain mixed with the good and share that with Negan, too.  But by the way he holds you, strokes your neck as his other hand wanders lower to cup your belly, you can’t seem to have a single regret.

For once, selfish seems like the right choice.


	29. Chapter 29

**6 months and 23 days later…**

The pads of his thumb brush against the curved skin of your turgid belly. He waits. One second. Two seconds. Three…

The soft fluttering beneath where his lips and fingers lie becomes an insistent pressure, pulling you fully above the surface of consciousness.

“Look at you," He coos. "Doing flips and shit in Mommy’s tummy. My little ass kicker.” Hearing Negan’s voice so relaxed and gentle did things to you, made you feel and taste reality with a new, hopeful outlook on life. Though, at the moment, his words are muffled as your husband had shimmied beneath the sheets—really nothing out of the usual—stroking your exposed belly as your daughter gives another well-placed kick to your kidney.

“You say that now,” You grunt, moving his arm to where your daughter is hell bent on chopping your insides to bits, “but if you were me…”

“I’d be a MILF.” He quickly interrupts, eyes glittering as you lift the covers to give him an incredulous look. “It’s true, sweetheart. Pregnancy has treated you well and I’m ass over boner for my baby mama.”

There are simply no words.

“What the shit?” He hisses, cupping his ear and rubbing the sting from a well-placed slap.

“What did I tell you about cursing around the baby? She can hear you,” You insist.

He rolls his eyes, maneuvering so he spoons your back and cups your swollen middle. “You’re fucking ignorant if you don’t think her first word won’t be shit.”

Now it's your turn to roll your eyes, because, goddamnit, he's right. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your trip to Hilltop? Oh," You brighten, "that reminds me, I want you to take one of the ultrasound scans for Kaleb to see his niece.”

It seemed like you’d only seen less of your brother these past months, and you weren’t necessarily seeking answers, but your brother had seamlessly moved into the position of Negan’s 'right hand' while Simon had mysteriously disappeared. You’d asked once. Conflicting interests, Negan had only said.

That was code for dead if you knew anything about your husband.

“Yeah,” He rubs his hardening member against your ass, “but I’ve always got time for a quickie, sweetheart.”

“You’re insatiable,” You scoff.

“But you're going to let me fuck you anyway,” He quips already tugging down the scrap of fabric between your legs. His long fingers expertly stroke your wet folds, spreading your wetness and pressing forward into your tight sleeve. “Will you let me fuck you, sweetheart?” He’s teasing you, truly.

“You know I will,” You say, pushing back onto his wondering hands as sparks of heat flare in your core. The things he could do with his fingers! Your brain gets mushier—if that’s even possible since you’d reached new heights this past couple of months, pregnancy brain, they called it—as he establishes a rhythm that you both begin to roll your hips too. His labored breathing brushes against the back of your neck and the slight pinch of your clit has you reeling. You’re about to explode into a million glorious pieces when…there’s a knock at the door.

“What the shit!”

“That’ll be breakfast.” The pout that had been edging at your lips slips into a tiny grin. Mhmm, you had a serious craving for strawberries. “I’m hungry, honey. Do you think they’ll be strawberries?” You ask, tugging your panties and nightdress back into place.

“You’re always hungry.” He tosses over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom, no doubt to take care of his, er, problem.

With a silent promise to make it up to him later, you open the door, only to be bombarded by the most mouthwatering scent of fried food. “Do I smell hashbrowns?” You ask one of the kitchen staff, Sadie, as the cart passes you and they begin to set trays down in the seating area of your shared room.

“Potatoes were harvested last night.” She answers, giving you a knowing look and a small laugh at your facial expression when she continues to say, “I also managed a few strawberries.”

“Sadie, you spoil me.” You gush, spying the small bowl of ripened berries.

She brushes off your comment with a wave of her hand before arranging the cutlery and a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“All right, Y/N, all done.” She chirps brightly, holding up the rear as the others hastily make their way towards the exit. Honestly, Sadie seemed to be the only staffer who wasn’t phased by her proximity to Negan. She stops short, glancing at your belly. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head, stepping closer so that her small hand can press against where the baby had been moving moments before. It was still such an odd feeling. “And it’s a girl?” She asks, giving you an even larger grin when the baby flutters against her palm.

You can hardly resist your grin as her’s is so contagious. “Yes, she’ll be here any day now. Another week or so, Doc says.”

“Do you have a name picked out?”

“Not yet.” You had a pretty good idea, you just weren’t sure if you were ready to share it yet.

“Sadie,” Negan’s gruff drawl sends shivers down your spine as he emerges from your bathroom, hair still wet and barefoot. “Hope you brought something that’ll make my wife less difficult this morning.” He’s only kidding, partially. You were infamous for your mid-morning moods.

“Yep, got the strawberries just like you said.” She winks, before shutting the door.

“I am not difficult,” You pout, waddling towards the couch and sinking onto the cool cushions. Your back, your feet. Honestly, everything hurt. It would be easier to name things that didn’t.

Hmm, like your tongue. Placing a plump berry between your teeth, you bite down slowly, savoring the juices that burst on your tongue.

Negan's biceps look absolutely sinful in that fitted tee and you find yourself watching him with rapt interest as he stalks closer, taking the seat beside you on the couch.

“I know that look,” He snickers, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your lips before uncovering a tray with bacon.

“Eat,” He orders.

It seems all you can do is eat these days, you wanted to eat him, but alas, the smell of fried potatoes entices you away from your less than impure thoughts. Soon you’re shoveling fork after forkful of beans and toast into your mouth, licking your lips.

“Good?” You pause, a forkful of eggs poised at the ready, to stare at your husband who looks on in amusement.

“Pretty good,” You sniff, before adding slyly. “Though I can think of other things…”

You fully expect him to turn you down. He’d been so adamant during this pregnancy and about the baby's health, that's what it always came down to, though you can’t blame him. However, you're pleasantly surprised when he chews thoughtfully on a bite of toast, asking, “You finish your breakfast?”

“Yes!” With a sudden bout of grace, you haven’t possessed in some time, you wiggle onto his lap, forcing him back into the cushions to make room for your belly. It’s just kind of there, always. “Oops.”

He watches with thinly veiled amusement as you tug at the button of his jeans, pressing yourself against his lap in a poor attempt to catch some friction. “You’re not sorry.”

Finally reaching for what you’d been after all along, you wrap small fingers around his heated length, stroking and pumping until his eyes flutter. You half blame hormones, but the other part is mainly on you. How could you not want to ride him into oblivion when he was just sitting there so unsuspecting—and willing, so very willing.

You soon find your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the side of his neck, he’s fresh from the shower and he tastes of his body wash and something that’s purely him. This pregnancy had heightened your senses, and was it even fair that not only did his movements taunt you, but his scent now did as well?

“This position isn’t going to work,” You muse aloud and with his help, pivot on his lap until you’re straddling him reverse cowgirl.

“Careful,” He warns, his voice tight as you roll your hips and sink down onto his cock, inch by aching inch. That tight stretch, the feeling of his hard thighs pressed against your own. This is what you’d been wanting. “Take it nice and slow.”

“Now who’s teasing?” It’d taken a three-hour lecture and five different ultrasounds to get Negan to lay off the crazy notion that sex could somehow harm the baby. Even then, he hadn’t fucked you unrestrained in months.

“Easy,” His scolding is cut off by a groan that bubbles from his lips when you rock your hips forward, catching the friction on your engorged clit. He pitches forward and cups your breasts with a gentleness that still surprises you, rolling the hype-sensitive tips between his talented fingers. You're groaning desperately, panting for some much-needed air as you stand on your toes, bouncing slightly on his length. “You just want me to bend your little ass over and fuck you hard, huh?” He punctuates his question with a thrust, his hard length sliding deliciously against your front wall.

You catch yourself begging. “Please, husband. Just for a moment, fuck me like I know you want to.” Besides, it might induce the baby and you miss the sight of your toes and bending over.

Negan growls at the now rarely used term of endearment, standing and sliding his arms around your middle so that he can position you over the back of the couch. “Pillow?”

“Maybe two.” You relent. He gently tucks them underneath you so that they cradle your tummy, then he's there, poised at your entrance.

“Such a tight fucking pussy,” He hums against your heated flesh, pitching forward as he begins a fast rhythm that pushes you into the cushions. The hypnotic slap of skin against skin resonates through the room, your soft sighs mesh with his own soft grunts as you arch your back and take him deeper.

“Harder, baby.” Your fingernails sink into the leather at a particularly well-placed thrust. “Please, you won’t break me.”

“Harder?”

“Yes,” You whine. “Pull my hair, anything.”

There's a moment of hesitation on his part and you hear his silent resolve before he rakes a hand through the crown of your head. He seizes a fistful, gently pulling and adding that sweet bite of pain that you need to push you over the edge. Your free hand reaches down to rub your sodden folds as you fall apart into a million glorious pieces.

“Damn it, sweetheart.” He curses and his rhythm falters as your walls massage and practically milk his length for all its work.

Hissing, you beg, “Oh, yes, cum inside me.” His length stiffens and contracts within your walls and he loses his composure, pounding you harder into the cushions as your release drips from between your legs and moments later, mingles with his.

“If you’re not pregnant,” He sighs, slipping out of you with a brief laugh, “you definitely are now.”

Like a dutiful husband, he plucks a fruit from the tray and dangles it between your lips as you cuddle into his side, boneless and sated. “Happy?”

You press deeper into his side, nuzzling the downy hair on his chest. When had he gone topless? “So fucking happy and very relaxed,” You add, knowing how he worries.

“And you’ll stay in the room today?” He asks, tugging at a strand of hair that lays captured in his grip. “I’ll only be gone a handful of hours. You’ll stay out of shit, right?”

“Promise,” You hum, taking the bite of strawberry that he offers. “I’ll be good, I swear.”

He sighs. “If I’d known rough sex was going to make you more complacent...I’d have pounded you into the mattress months ago, sweetheart.”

* * *

 

“Blake,” You hiss as your head peaks through your partially opened bedroom door and into the hallway. It’s empty and sans the usual crony that stalks the hallways with strict orders from Negan.

“Where the hell are you?” You continue, stepping out into the corridor. Knowing Blake, a twenty-something-year-old and newly crowned Savior, whom you knew had a thing for a certain red-head in the kitchen, it’d be close to an hour before he’s back with your pickles. Fucking typical.

And you're starving, great. So you decide quickly, you’d go yourself and see if they had any strawberries from earlier. You could do with the walk. You’d tried to tell your husband that moderate exercise could induce labor but Negan had been so over-protective lately he’d hardly let you leave the room.

With your mind made up, you head for Stairwell C, the lesser used stairwell that would allow you to slip in about out of the kitchen within minutes. Negan would never have to know.

The moment you open the door, the sound of soft arguing in the stairwell immediately makes you tense and compels you forward. You were no longer the naive little girl that had come to the factory. You didn’t run from trouble anymore, you ran towards it. Judging by the direction that the sound was coming from, they were a floor below you.

“…don’t understand why you’re so concerned about Simon…”

Dwight’s voice suddenly becomes louder, his voice overflowing with thinly veiled anger. He’s frustrated, which can only mean…

“D,” Sherry softly coos, and after catching the door so its sound is muted when it closes, you carefully edge forward and take a seat on the top step, “I have to know because he’s special to me, he promised that he’d get us supplies and a car so that we could disappear—just you and me, Dwight.” Even you can tell she's placating him.

“You’re sure?” There’s a hint of skepticism in his speech. He knows you realize, he’s just too cowardly to admit it to himself.

Deciding that there’s nothing here but the past, you slowly stand. Negan was right. No matter how much Joey’s death screamed suspicion it was no use going on a manhunt.

“…Joey was so sure that you were lying to me—a-and that you were fucking him this entire time!” Dwight's sudden outburst knocks the wind out of you temporarily, and you're forced to take a seat.

“Lower your voice!” They quiet a moment but it’s useless, their voices while lesser in volume, echo in the stairwell. “What are you saying, D?” She asks slowly, quietly.

“I’m talking about the fucking truth, goddamnit! Who’s lying to me—was it you or him?” Leaning over the railing you watch them struggle, Dwight's grip on Sherry’s arm tightens as you absentmindedly stroke your belly and ponder them. It’s like watching ants and maybe its the perspective, but everything seems so simple from up here. “He told me that day on the rooftop and I just snapped. Sherry—baby, you have to understand that I’d do it all again, for you.”

You’ve gone over that night almost every day since then in your head, down to the last minute. But try as you might, you’d felt as if something was missing, if only you hadn’t been so tired and fell asleep. You might've known the truth.

Joey could still be alive.

“Don’t—just don’t!” She wrenches her wrist from his grip, the force of which sends him backward on the stairs and he stumbles. “You’re drunk, D. Just stay away from me.”

She comes storming up the stairs faster than you can react, but she doesn’t notice you at first. Her gaze downcast and hands tightly wrapped around her chest, she’s too absorbed in her own thoughts. That is until she isn’t. Her gaze widens when she sees you and she goes to speak but you lift a single finger to your mouth. With a jerk of her chin, she steps aside and escapes from the door in which you’d come.

You spend some time just thinking after that, just listening to Dwight sob. It’s like a salve for your slowly healing wounds. If anyone had to hurt, you’re glad that it’s him. Having finished you’re counting, you rise softly and you don’t bother to be quiet, stomping down the several flights of stairs.

He calls out, “Who’s there?”

His words are slurred, you note with a hint of distaste, rounding the last corner so that you’re facing him. How had you not noticed his state of deterioration? His eyes are sunken and he's unshaven, clearly, he'd been suffering.

“Y/N, it’s just you.” He passes you the flask he’d been nursing and you take it readily. “Sit with me, drink with me.”

You don’t bother to point out that you’re pregnant and would never touch a drop ever again, but he’s too far gone. Instead, you take a seat as he instructs, exactly four steps from where his body is sprawled out. You just sit and observe. He has one hand on the railing to keep him steady.

“Dwight?” You have to ask because you’re not sure if he’s still there.

It takes him a moment.

“Yeah?” He even turns his head, but it's in the wrong direction and that’s okay because this won’t take long.

You just need to clarify one thing.

“You killed Joey?”

“It’s a secret,” He mumbles at last. Even completely inebriated, he’s guarding his heart. The idea that almost a year ago this had been you is intriguing. Watching someone decay from the inside would rectify the problems of others, you realize. It’s different watching addiction when it’s not your own.

“I won’t tell your secret, D.” You insist, using Sherry’s nickname and purposefully lowering your tone to mimic her soft talk. “Tell me.”

“Sherry?” He tries to follow your voice, his eyes barely open.

You coax him further, “Yeah, D?”

“I pushed him for you.” He garbles. “He told me…you and Simon…”

“He told you that they were together.” You nod, knowing as much. Screwing off the cap of the flask, you lean forward in the stairwell. “But you didn’t believe him so you poured the liquor on him..?”

“Yeah.”

“Like this?”

He splutters as you dump the full contents of the flash onto his head. It might be whiskey, maybe it’s moonshine. Protesting, he stands, barely catching his footing on the slick surface of the stairs.

“What happened next, Dwight?” You ask, your voice suddenly hard. Though, you know the answer. Joey must have caught on or seen something involving Simon and Sherry, he knew and he’d kept it to himself. “Did he beg for you to see reason? That’s what Joey would try to do—he’d try to help you because he sees the best in everyone and everything. Y-you fucking piece of shit!” You cry out, desperately trying to hold back tears.

“I didn’t want to.” He moans, looking more irate than regretful. “He was my friend, but I loved you, too. They were my family and I actually had something good for once. Now we’re broken and Y/N won't even come to the bar, Sherry. I’m so lonely now.” He sobs. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

You’d had enough and it doesn’t take much, just a hard shove of your foot and he goes sailing backward. Twenty-five. You’d counted twenty-five steps. And you count each one again as he rolls and stumbles too drunk to catch himself as anyone sober would do. His neck catches, and you hear that horrible snap of finality.

Why is it that it's so easy to die, but harder to live?

“Please,” You scoff, staring down at his broken body in the stairwell and tossing the flask after him. Let them all think the same thing that had happened to Joey, happened to him. Only you would know the truth. “We were nothing more than drinking buddies.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always a bittersweet feeling, finishing a story. Thank you so much to everyone who's liked and commented. It means so much to me and I love every single one of you. Thank you, thank you! Here's to more narratives in the future. x

“Not right now, baby.” You take a deep breath, pressing a hand to your stomach that had gotten impossibly hard in the short amount of time it’d taken you to reach Sherry’s room. The gun in your hand is heavy and cold but it is nothing compared to the heaviness that weighs down your heart. “Let mama take care of this and then we can turn the page. A fresh start.”

You couldn’t allow for your child to be born into a place where liars and vindictive individuals ran free. Taking a deep breath you hold onto the doorframe as another contraction wracks your body. Forty-five minutes. That’s how long it’d taken you to go back to your bedroom and retrieve the revolver that you knew Negan kept in his bedside drawer. That's also when the first contraction had hit you.

You were on borrowed time and you knew it.

Straightening fully, you knock and only have to wait a bit before there’s movement on the other side. The doorknob slowly begins to turn and before you can second guess your slightly irrational plan, Sherry appears, dressed in fitted jeans and a baggy green shirt. Judging by the dark hues that sprawl beneath her beady eyes, she’s exhausted. They study your face with a sluggishly questioning look before coming to rest upon the weapon clutched tightly in your hand.

“So you know,” She says with a sigh, making way for you to pass. Her new room is quaint compared to her last but still bigger than most. Nothing about it really stands out to you.

“I do,” You answer, letting out a sigh of your own. You’d settled on the idea of killing her moments ago, figuring that Dwight was gone and what was one more on your body count. But now, seeing her like this, so pathetic and lost, you just wanted her gone.

You can hardly harbor any animosity when you say, “You’re just like Lucille. You don’t know her but I’ve come to—through stories and forlorn looks—she’s selfish and weak, like you. Coming between things that are good. You couldn’t just leave Dwight alone and now he’s dead.” Her eyes flash briefly at your words.

“You and him,” She shakes her head in disgust, obviously referring to Negan, “you’re cut from the same cloth. What do you want, Y/N?”

“For you to leave and never come back,” You pause, stepping forward to rest on the edge of her bed. “But first I want what you told Dwight, the truth. The unabridged truth.”

She has the audacity to look affronted. “I’m not going anywhere until I find Simon.”

“He’s dead, Sherry.” You say, quite bluntly.

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I? He's been gone for months.” Taking a steadying breath, you watch the idea sink into her skin and she pitches forward, clutching her chest. “Tell me everything.”

It takes her a moment to speak as she gathers herself. “Simon knew of this group that had been making its way along the highway.” Your heart sinks as she continues. “Negan didn’t really consider them a threat and he assumed that they’d eventually leave the area. But I could tell he was...tired of Rachel and I needed him distracted. Simon mentioned that h-he’d seen a female…young...younger than any of us...”

“I was that female?” You interrupt her, disgust now coloring your words as you fit the pieces together. The final picture was...painful. “You told him to go after my group—kill one of my people—all so you could fuck in peace? You know you had the choice to leave the arrangement with Negan, right?”

Her laugh is bitter and frail, she looks up from her hands to give you a disbelieving look. “Yes, because telling Negan I was fucking his second-in-command from day one would go over so well with him.” She laughs again, rising to pull a bag from beneath her bed. Her movements are mechanical as she begins to pack.

You lower your gun, inquiring, “And Dwight, he just killed Joey? He actually thought Joey was lying about you and Simon?” It’s so ridiculous, you almost don’t believe it. All this, the whole reason you were even here and all the bad things that had ever happened…were because of her. The puppet master who'd pulled all the strings.

“D,” She smiles softly, “he always saw the best in me.”

Her movements finally slow and she looks around the room, really seeing as her eyes begin to trail your frame. “I wanted a baby once.” With a tired sigh, she lifts the full bag and swings it over her shoulder, making her way to the door.

“Y/N,” Looking up, you acknowledge her silent question, “do you remember that time you came to the parlor and you looked so…detached. You asked me at the bar if I'd ever felt like…like my body wasn't my own and I was on autopilot."

You nod tentatively, vaguely recalling that dismal conversation. “No one had ever asked me how I felt, until you. Men,” Sherry laughs, as she idles by the open door, “you spread your legs for them and they tell you that they care, but do they really?"

"I don't understand." You say, because that's all you can muster.

"You and me, Y/N, we’re no different.”

You bristle at her words, spitting out, “Fuck you.”

She doesn’t look phased, rather smiling softly with a distant look in your eyes. “You’re welcome, for everything.”

Without another word, she leaves.

If there was ever a moment to be sad or angry, to throw something across the room in a grand gesture—it would be now. It seems fitting, a climatic ending. Instead, you find yourself smirking. Maybe you were a little like her, a little like Negan, too.

A strong contraction.

It takes your breath away, but you grin and bear it through the pain. It was over, all of it was over. And in a fucked up way, you wished you had said thank you. Without her, you’d never have met Negan. You’d never have fallen only to rise to greater heights.

“I’m going to be okay.” You whisper, and you believe it.

* * *

 

There’s this strong pressure between your legs when you finally muster the strength to leave Sherry's room.

The baby is coming.

The baby is coming and Negan is miles away. The idea that Negan might miss the birth of your baby brings tears to your eyes as another contraction sends you crying out. It's stronger than the preceding, knocking you off your feet in a display that causes you to soon find yourself attracting an audience in the hallway.

“Can someone please radio Negan?” You cry out between strained breathing, thankful when a pair of strong arms lift you into their arms.

“I’ve got it,” Reggie says, a Savior who regularly kept watch on your floor.

Before he can go, you tug on his sleeve with one last comment. “I think I saw Dwight drinking in Stairwell C. I'm worried, can you check on him?” He nods briefly, acknowledging your request as your swept away by a well-intentioned Savior. No doubt they were fighting for the bragging rights and rewards that came with helping Negan’s ailing wife. “What are you going to get for this?” You ask through gritted teeth as Arat carries you through the door of the infirmary, startling Lisa. You give a small wave as she directs Arat to set you down on the edge of the plush hospital bed usually reserved for births at the Sanctuary. Its off to the far corner, though the infirmary today was questionably empty, to give mothers more privacy.

“Unlimited visits at the Pussy Parlor for a month!” She’s practically vibrating.

“My hero.” You can’t help but laugh through the pain.

“Has your water broken?” Lisa asks, gathering a tray of supplies and a hospital gown.

“No, not yet.” You gasp. “Why am I having contractions?”

“It’s normal.” She quickly assures you and you’re grateful that she doesn’t launch into a bunch of medical jargon in the process. “Not all mommies need their water to break, but it would be ideal. Let’s get you changed and walking around for a bit, ‘kay?”

“Can you get Annabella?” You hear Lisa ask Arat as they both leave so that you can change. The maternity gown in question has buttons up the front and back and is a nightmarish shade of magenta. “I’ll need a second pair of hands.”

“Why is it that these gowns never close entirely?” You ask when Lisa comes back through the curtain, a large yoga ball in hand. She helps get you situated before moving towards a tray of medical supplies.

“Easier access,” She winks.

“You just want a good look at my ass,” You quip, continuing to bounce on the ridiculous ball in hopes that this baby will be out of you by the end of the day. You’d heard of women who’d been in labor for almost thirty-six hours, not if you could help it, from then on your bouncing renews.

“Honey bunches!” Annabella cries bursting through the curtains with Kaleb hot on her heels.

You’re suddenly in the middle of a shit-ton of hugs and emotions, and you eat it up like the hormonal pregnant woman you are. That is until you realize you’re missing something. “Where’s Negan?” You ask.

“Right fuckin’ here, sweetheart.” He comes crashing through the curtain seconds after the question leaves your lips.

“If you can believe it,” Kaleb rolls his eyes, “I beat him here. I was worried about you, sunshine. Didn’t want you to do this without family and we weren't far.”

Your eyes mist at his confession and as you tug Negan a little closer, you look up into eyes that are so much like your own. “I’m not alone, Kaleb. The people at the factory, Negan, and Annabella, their my family, too.” You mean to be sincere, only the effect is ruined by your continuous bouncing.

“Am I interrupting?” A small voice punctures the short moment and Negan's soothing hand, which had been rubbing circles into the small of your naked back, pauses.

“What-the-shit?” Negan spits, eyes flaring. “Reggie, you better have a good fucking reason for being here, and it better not be to catch a glance at my wife’s pussy.” He growls, snatching the back of your hospital gown closed.

“Goddamnit, Negan!” You bite out, panting through another contraction. “I asked him to check on Dwight for me. So shut the hell up and let him talk.”

“Holy shit!” Annabella giggles from somewhere close and you hear her murmur to Lisa. “I love my family.”

“Yeah, about that,” He scrubs his face a moment, warily eyeing Negan in the process, “found him dead in the stairwell. He'd been drinking and he slipped."

It seems like a good moment to say something. Make an effort to play a part, you know? The room slows uneasily and you finally settle on your yoga ball. Negan swears loudly and it’s this moment that your baby picks to make its presence known. A steady trickle followed by a steady rush of fluid soaks your legs and the yoga ball.

It’s as if she was waiting for you to assure her that every malicious intent had been eradicated from her home.

“My water broke.” You announce somewhat cooly, surveying the arrange of faces before you. These people were going to be your baby’s family. As dysfunctional went, they weren’t too bad.

“What, like now?” Kaleb balks before backing out of the room with Reggie in tow at Negan’s ordering.

“I can do this,” You smile encouragingly at your brother and he does his best to believe you.

You weren’t alone, surrounded by the ones who had cared for you from the very beginning. There was no hurt to be found as you’d taken the first push as Lisa instructed. It felt almost ethereal as you take a break, cradled against Negan’s chest.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, sweetheart. You’re so close.” He whispers into your hair in the brief moment that you rest after a fourth push. No fucking wonder woman didn’t want to do this without drugs. It’d be a cold day in hell the next time you allowed Negan to touch you.

“Close?” You whimper.

“So close, baby. Just one more push.” He assures you as Annabella leaves to fetch a small towel from the counter where a small bath is already waiting.

“What are you going to name her?” Annabella asks, her eyes intently on Lisa’s arms as you bear down on a particularly strong contraction.

“Bella,” Negan answers for you as your otherwise occupied birthing his child, she glances at you, her mouth making a perfect ‘o’ silently asking for clarification.

“After her godmother,” You confirm just seconds before your daughter’s cries fill the air.

“She’s beautiful.” Ten fingers, ten toes. A beautiful, healthy baby, Lisa declares before passing you the swaddled and cleaned bundle minutes later. A pair of dark eyes gazes back at you, wide-eyed and curious. The small smattering of hair atop her head is soft and hints of future curls.

“She’s fucking gorgeous, baby. Just like her mommy.” Negan comments over your shoulder, no doubt taking in the slope of her tiny chin so much like your own. You notice that the others have left the room quietly to give you space. “Think we can do this again?” He’s clearly joking but the gravity of his simple question sticks with you.

“In time…” You word the sentence carefully, pressing Bella’s flailing hand against your cheek. “I want to watch her grow and that goes for our love, too. We’ve crammed so much into the beginning of our relationship, Negan. I just want to be a family. If we have another baby, I want it to be our choice and an act of love, not an accident.”

You expect more of a pushback, but he simply remarks, “That sounds perfect, sweetheart.”

“She looks like you,” You comment. “She has your nose, I think. Your hair coloring, too.”

He hums, holding you both close as the small infant latches onto your nipple with his help. “Look at that.” He lightly laughs, stroking his daughter's cheek as she grunts softly with an effort to eat. “A tit lover, just like her daddy.” He coos.

“Oh, hush.” You laugh tiredly, batting at a stray finger that wanders to your other exposed breast. He gets in one more good rub before you slap his palm away. Bella squawks in your arms, making her displeasure known of her parents roughhousing before returning to eat.

“I love you both. So much,” He brushes his lips lightly against yours, stroking little Bella’s hair as she releases your nipple with a pop. She nuzzles your breast before promptly falling asleep as you both relish the peaceful bubble that your family lays in.

Your family. Yours to make new traditions and add to as you please. You can’t imagine that your heart can hold much more love than in this moment…

“I love our family.” You breathe. “My foul-mouthed husband and my sweet little angel.”

Though, you find that the act is effortless and it’s only two years later that you give birth to a baby boy.

You name him Joseph.

**Fín.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to bookmark my user profile! i have 3 new stories coming out in a few weeks! bye for now. x


	31. New Story: Deny Me

**Hey guys! I just posted my new story 'Deny Me' and you should totally check it out. There's tons of smut and (a little) plot!**

**okay, mwah x**

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think. Reviews make me write quicker and kudos make my day.
> 
> Okay, mwah x


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